


Mr. Harris and the Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

by catlyon



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Anal Sex, Blackmail, But Not the Gross Kind, Cousin Incest, Creeper Peter, Daddy Kink, Dark Humor, Derek Uses His Words, Dom/sub Play, Explicit Sexual Content, Gratuitous use of Tang, Hairy Man Butts, Hand Jobs, Jealous Derek, M/M, Manipulative Peter, Mental Coercion, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Only maybe a little gross, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Revenge fic, Sexual Coercion, Spanking, Stiles is Not a Virgin, Threesome - M/M/M, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Underwear Kink, but then it gets better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:42:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catlyon/pseuds/catlyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is seeking revenge upon everyone who participated in his family's death. Now it's Mr. Harris's turn, and Peter has discovered a rather kinky way to stalk his prey. </p><p>"It's a simple matter of discovering the prey's unmet needs, then dangling the fulfillment of those needs as fat, wriggling bait. Then, when the prey has fallen fully and completely into Peter's net, he likes a slow reveal before the final pounce. Taking his time to allow them to fully understand just how completely they have given themselves over, how much tender belly and vulnerable throat they have unknowingly exposed to a wolf in sheep's clothing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you have triggers, this fic will probably provoke them. I'm still learning how to tag so consider my tags incomplete and consider this your warning. Here be dragons, or at least oogie sex stuff that will give you the heebie jeebies.
> 
> I wrote this because I hope that Mr. Harris isn't really dead yet, but if he is, he still deserves a last hurrah. Also, Peter is so deliciously evil that he deserves to have his revenge upon Mr. Harris for the role he played in the murder of Peter's family.
> 
> I have this idea that Mr. Harris is filled with self-loathing and the reason he hates Stiles so much is because he sees in Stiles echos of his own youth, which he is ashamed of. So essentially he hates Stiles because he hates himself and Stiles reminds him of himself, especially his awkward youth. And he wants to hulk smash Stiles because he wants to hulk smash himself and his own weaknesses. So, that's the premise behind my characterization of Mr. Harris. 
> 
> Peter is just a regular guy who was born a werwolf, barely survived being burned alive, lost his family, lost his sanity, murdered his neice, was murdered by his nephew, and then zombied back to life by assaulting and then haunting and mind controlling the local genius beauty queen. He thought about it a lot, made a list of pros and cons and determined that the fastest way to return himself to sanity and put his past behind him was to systematically hunt down and wreak his revenge upon everyone who participated in the murder of his family. Now it's Mr. Harris's turn.
> 
> Not Beta'd. All mistakes are my own to mull over deep into the night losing sleep over whether I should have written further or farther, lied or laid, fellated or fellatioed? Darn those pesky verb tenses.

The most satisfying part of being a predator is stalking one's prey. Peter considers himself especially talented in this regard. He's patient, exacting. He takes his time; is careful not to rush. Prey can be wily and unpredictable. It can surprise one with it's last minute resourcefulness. The best way to avoid these pitfalls is learn one's prey intimately before pouncing. This is the stalking. This is Peter's area of expertise. It's where he thrives.

Prey must be scrutinized. Its strengths, weaknesses, resources must be examined, weighed and measured. It must be watched and studied within many different situations, to gauge how it responds to different catalysts, different stimuli. When cornered will it feint to the left or the right? Will it play dead like an opossum? Will it try to climb a tree or burrow underground? Will it draw closer or run further away?

It takes skill to excavate exactly what type of environment his potential prey might consider alluring. Then he must build the most plush and tempting of traps, and hide it within the circumstances best determined to draw his prey into complacency.

It's a simple matter of discovering the prey's unmet needs, then dangling the fulfillment of those needs as fat, wriggling bait. Then, when the prey has fallen fully and completely into Peter's net, he likes a slow reveal before the final pounce. Taking his time to allow them to fully understand just how completely they have given themselves over, how much tender belly and vulnerable throat they have unknowingly exposed to a wolf in sheep's clothing. The dawning horror of their realization is something so delicious, so stimulating. It lingers in his mind and on his tongue, their soft cries of defeat filling his ears, as he remembers the way each and every one of them came to know the horror of what they had done, what they had allowed themselves to do.

Take this particular quarry. It required so little effort to discover how lonely he is. He lives alone. He does his grocery shopping alone and buys half a rotisserie chicken at a time, which means he eats alone too. Loneliness is so conveniently exploitable that it almost seems too easy. What good is the _coupe de grace_ without the chase?

Still, Peter promised himself to be circumspect with this one. He owes the man retribution of the highest order. He will take his time, relishing every ploy that pulls his prey deeper and deeper into his web.

 

===

I'm having second thoughts. I'm in the Jungle, a local gay bar, waiting for a guy I met online to show up and possibly I fear, laugh at me in public. And I'm doing it because it has been so long since I got laid, since anyone held me with intent, that I'm willing to chance public humiliation in the hopes that this guy, my date, will be as good in person as he seemed to be in chat. My hands are sweating, I've been through one rum and Coke and am halfway through another. Good grief! What was I thinking? This guy is going to show up, he's going to be old and fat and have acne scars and an unkempt scraggly beard with food sticking out of it, or maybe chicken bones. He'll be wearing polyester pants with a white belt or maybe a leisure suit, and he won't be wearing it ironically and he won't be half as hot as his picture. He's going to mock me for my chat name, _Daddy'sGoodBoy81_ , and then he's going to tell me what a sick fuck I am for wanting to indulge in a little role playing. Then he'll pull my pants down in front of everyone, laugh at my dick and throw my drink in my face. My legs are jumping. My pits are sweating. I'm going to get up and go home. Any minute now, I'll put down my drink, stand up and walk right out the door.

At least it's a Monday night and not a weekend. After that disastrous time I saw the kids from school at that rave I have been extremely careful about going out anywhere nearby. I hate having to interact with those hormone crazed savages in class, I refuse to do it out of class. Better to drive over to Sunnydale, the next town over. I have to go there every weekend anyway, since my mother fell and broke a couple of ribs. My aunts, her sisters, take care of her for the most part, but I still have to visit every weekend and they're happier if I stay the night. I'm not happy about it, because they are doing their level best to make sure I never get laid again, for the rest of my miserable existence. Still, there isn't anyone else available to look in on mom, and she and her sisters are always careful to remind me of my obligations.

Okay, I can't take the wait for another moment. I've had enough! I drain my drink. I stand up. I pull down my t-shirt because it's wrenched up over my hips and is showing off a sliver of the skin on my back. I turn towards the door. I force my legs to move. And there he is. Holy Fuck! He's not fat and he's not wearing a polyester leisure suit and he is the hottest thing in here on this slow and lonely Monday night. He's looking around and, fuck! He's looking directly at me. I look down. Then I think that seems weird so I look up. Only he's looking at me and I can't very well look back at him, because he is _HIM_ , and I am _me_. So I look up at the ceiling. Only then I can't see what's going on and I look like a doofus because I'm looking at the fucking ceiling in a gay bar, instead of all the pretty boys who are dancing on the dance floor and the hot guys who are cruising at the cruising lounge. Holy fuck my hands are heavy, my arms are light. My heart is going to beat through my chest.

And then he's there. Standing beside me, hand on the back of my neck.

“Breathe,” he demands. “Close your eyes. Slow down. Breathe. In and then _pause_ and then out. Good.”

I realize I'm hyperventilating, or at least on the verge of doing so. My glasses are fogged up. I pull them off and clean them with the hem of my shirt, but can't put them back on yet. I'm not willing to see clearly yet. It's too hard, too intense. I'll just let things be fuzzy looking for a while. His fingers are stroking my neck, gliding slowly up and down. He's breathing for me, and I'm trying to match my breaths with his. Fuck!

He cocks his head and I think he's smiling, but I can't tell because I'm virtually blind without my glasses and his face isn't close enough for me to make it out clearly. “You're doing good. Keep breathing with me.” His voice sounds like he's smiling.

I squeak a little bit, but can't actually make words yet.

“No, don't talk.” He says. “Keep breathing. We'll have plenty of time to talk in a few minutes.”

I nod then try to sit back on the bar stool I was on, only I can't see so I miss it and almost land on my ass before he catches me and angles my rear end back to the padded stool. I nod my thanks.

“So, I take it you're Daddy's Good Boy?” he asks with a playful lilt in his voice.

I nod. “Yeah, that's me. And you must be PapaWolf76?” I manage through wheezing breaths.

“I am.” His fingers are still trailing gently up and down the spinal cord in my neck. I manage a deep, cleansing breath, put on my glasses and watch him. He moves closer to me, almost pressing against my side. He's shorter than me, so when he stands and I sit on the bar stool, his eyes are slightly higher than mine. I find my breathing settling down to a normal rhythm as I realize how much I like being shorter than him, subservient to him.

“You look just like your picture.” I blurt out.

He quirks an eyebrow. “Where you worried I wouldn't?”

My ears heat with a rush of blood. “I wasn't sure.” I admit, ducking my head as he continues to watch me. Inspecting me. I glance up at him quickly, and then look down again. “People don't always tell the truth.”

He puts a hand under my chin and lifts my face up so that I have no choice but to look him straight in the eye. His eyes are ocean blue, piercing and the muscles in his neck and shoulders intimidate me while holding my attention. His strong fingers squeeze my jaw lightly. “Look at me.” He orders. I comply, raising my eyes to gaze directly into his own.

My God in Heaven I want to look away. He is mesmerizing. His own eyes see too much inside of my own. Whoever said that eyes were the window to the soul was dead on accurate and now this man is looking into my soul and I don't think I can take it another moment. My breath ratchets up again as I try to look away but he holds my face and forces me to look, to let him gaze at me and take my measure. Shit! I never measure up. I know that I never will measure up. Whenever there are measuring contests I just head for the back of the line because there is no hope of being anything more than who I am, and who I am—is simply not enough. If he would just let go then I could walk out the door and go back home and have a vodka and tonic and jack-off in the bathroom and go to bed and then wake up and face the unwashed heathens tomorrow and fail to teach them physics and chemistry and watch their dull, rotting brains refuse to absorb anything resembling knowledge and I can tiptoe myself back from this edge until I can breathe freely once more. And I will never, ever, ever try to do this online hook-up thing again because it is clearly for those who are far more confident and attractive and capable and motivated than myself.

Fuck! Stop looking at me!

“It's Adrian, correct?”

I nearly whimper. Good God! Where is my backbone and why is it hiding behind my spleen? “Yes” I murmur quietly. Still gazing into his eyes. Still wishing I could look away.

“You may call me Peter.” He instructs. “Say it for me. I want to hear it from you lips.”

My tongue licks my lips involuntarily because he mentioned them and they _have_ to react to him. My entire being _has_ to react to him. I am compelled. Every single cell in my body is compelled.

“Peter.” I whisper.

“Louder!” He insists.

Louder then, I say his name again with more force. “Peter.”

“Good.” His eyes are fastened to my lips. His hand has stopped stroking my neck and is clasping it firmly, directing my head with the force of his willful fingers. “What are you drinking Adrian?” He's so casual, so relaxed, almost as if his world hasn't shifted on it's axis since we met. Oh, wait, that might be me.

I think I swallow my tongue. But then I must gag it back into my mouth because somehow I'm able to speak. “Um. Rum. Rum and Coke. I've had two already.”

“Ah, then the next one will just be Coke. And I'll have a Perrier water with lime.” He places his order with the bartender and pays for our drinks. I notice he tips well. It makes me think better of him.

My mom waitressed when I was kid, after my father died in the military. The tips she brought home made a huge difference in our standard of living, so I am always careful to tip well and I find myself respecting those who do the same. Who knows, maybe his mom was a waitress too? I would ask him if I could form thoughts or words, but I can still barely remember to take one breath after another. Good God! Why do I have to keep breathing? Can't I just do it once and be done with it? Maybe then I could focus my attention on talking to him, getting to know him, instead of my head being filled with the fucking necessity of breathing over and over again!

He hands me my Coke and I take a grateful swallow. I breathe again and keep doing so, trying to collect my thoughts. “It's nice to meet you Peter.” I say. “I've been looking forward to it.”

He grins, smirks really. His dark hair is slicked back making his face stand out even more against the dark backdrop. His eyes seem to see into my skin, behind the facade I wear day in and day out. Like he can recognize the part of me that I keep hidden under layers of obligation and shame. He can see that vulnerable part of me that I keep bundled up in footie pajamas and a sleeping bag, camped out in a pup tent in the untamed wilderness of my subconscious. That part that I don't let come out except on special, well planned occasions. Fuck, I hope he likes what he sees, because when I look at him, I see someone who could lead me to the stars and back, someone who could take me apart and build me back up, stronger and unashamed. Fuck I want it. Fuck, I want it so bad.


	2. Chapter 2

He takes a sip of his drink and then leans in close to me. His face is in the crook of my neck, near my ear. I can feel his breath on the small hairs there. It's intimidating and arousing. I shiver involuntarily. He stays there and breathes. I still don't know what to do. Good God he makes me feel like the clumsy, stammering boy I was 15 years ago. I take a moment to remind myself that I am a full grown man. I have grown into my body. I control it. It doesn't control me. I've given him too much of myself already, and I don't even know him. He stands there, so close to my neck, my ear, just leaning in. Breathing. I find myself breathing with him and my control is coming back to me. I'm a grown ass man, 32 years old. I can do this. I can go on dates. I can express my adult needs to another consenting adult. I can get as kinky as I like in the privacy of my own home. I have nothing to be ashamed of. My normal social-armor is coming back together, protecting me enough so that I can participate in a friendly conversation. I sigh lightly. Oh yeah. I'm coming back to myself.

“Good boy.” Peter whispers and I almost fall apart again, hearing the words I long so desperately to hear from another man's lips. Except the hand he has on my neck ruffles itself into my hair, which he then pulls sharply.

“Ouch!” I say, slightly offended.

He smirks and moves slightly away. “It kept you from losing it again, didn't it?” He's facing me, still close, but not on top of me. The hand that had been on my neck is down on my arm, holding me lightly.

I rub my hand over the top of my head where he yanked my hair. It hurt, but he's right, the surprise kept me from falling back into my own head.

He pats my arm. “There, there boy. You'll be okay.” I'm still looking at him, at least I can do that now without hyperventilating.

He holds his hand out for me to shake. “I'm Peter Wolfram, and you're Adrian...”.

I shake his proffered hand. “Adrian Harris. I teach science at Beacon Hills High School.”

Peter nods as if he understands. “Ah, explains your need for privacy that we discussed online. I understand completely.”

I can feel the tension leaving my shoulders. “Um, yes. Privacy is vital for me if we decide to go ahead with any, ahem, role playing, in the future.”

“Of course.” His eyes are so earnest, so reassuring as they look into my own. Here is a man who looks like he really understands how much I need this, and how hard it is for me to ask for it.

I clear my throat. “I thought we might stay here tonight, if things go well. Maybe dance some, get to know each other. I feel like we should know one another a little better before we jump into anything too quickly.” I am not twitching. I am not flailing my arms. I am not behaving like one of my idiotic prepubescent students because I am a grown man and I have full control over my body and especially my limbs.

His eyes are twinkling, his lips are curling up around the edges. His hand is back on my arm. He leans closer to me, his voice a low whisper. “Very good boy. Standing up for yourself. Playing it safe before agreeing to anything more. I'm quite pleased. I think we'll work well together.” His voice is low and rumbling, almost a purr. Great pumpkin in the sky, what he's doing to me. I arch my neck back, offering my throat instinctively. I want to give myself to him and let him have his way with me. I want him to tell me what to do, and then I want to make him so proud of me that he will never leave me and he will keep me forever because I am such a good boy and he cannot bear to live without me. I want to crawl for him, I want to kneel for him. I want to turn myself inside out for him and have him watch me with pride and abiding affection. Good Grief! The things I want!

I think he knows what he's doing to me. He places a chaste kiss on my throat then leans back. I stay there, neck bent backwards, eyes closed, just letting the feel of his lips on my skin roll over me for a moment.

I sit up and smile. “Thanks. I'm glad you approve.” I can feel myself preening under his attention. This is going so much better than I thought.

Peter slaps his hands on the bar. It startles me briefly, but then I'm over it. He's handing me my Coke. “Very well Adrian. We will dance.” I'm grinning. I haven't been dancing in ages and I like to dance. “But first, I need you to do a favor for me.”

Now I'm uncomfortable again. He must notice because he says, “Now, now boy. Nothing so terrible as all that.” He pulls me up off of my bar stool with surprising strength. One of his arms is around my back, rubbing lightly over the sliver of skin exposed on my lower back when my shirt rides up. It feels hot and cold and shivery all at once. Leaning close he whispers. “I need you to go into the bathroom, remove your briefs and bring them back out to me. I'll be keeping them until next time. Can you do that for me boy? You would make me so proud.”

I swallow hard and nod my head. “Um, yeah. I can totally do that for you, Peter. Right now in fact.” I pull back from him. He's grinning at me with lots of teeth. I turn, trip slightly over the bar stool, almost spill my drink, but catch myself quickly and walk towards the men's room. I turn back when I'm half way there, and he's watching me. Oh sweet Mary, mother of God! I put a jiggle in my step before I can help myself. I may not have the most jiggly butt, but I can at least work what I've got.

In the bathroom there's a couple of guys in one of the stalls, but with my best gay bar etiquette, I ignore them. There are only three stalls so I choose the one farthest from them to allow them the illusion of privacy. Maybe they're exhibitionists though, because the moment I'm in the stall, it seems like they get louder, or at least one of them does. Christ, I can't tell if I'm turned on or grossed out. Probably a little of both.

I unbuckle my belt and let my trousers drop. This is going to be tricky because I don't want to take off my shoes, but I have to get my jean legs over my feet. I nearly fall over when one of my legs is up and the other is balanced precariously. I don't want my jeans to touch the floor. Who knows where it's been? With a turn, I sit down on the toilet, feeling a little foolish and lot vulnerable. I'm going to _have_ to take off my shoes to get the legs of my jeans over my feet. I can feel my face frown in frustration. With a few acrobatics, due to the length of my legs and the small size of the stall, I manage to get my briefs off. Only now I don't know what to do with them. I don't want to carry them out there and sling them around like some desperate cougar at a Tom Jones concert. So I stuff them in my pocket. They are small, rusty red colored, and I was careful to wear sexy ones, because you never know who might catch a glimpse of them. It takes a few moments to stuff myself back inside my jeans. The fabric scratches the skin on my ass and I'm extra careful not to zip up any pubes because that just fucking hurts! Finally I'm done. Undies in my pocket are bulging a little. It ruins the fit of my jeans, but they'll be in Peter's pocket soon enough, so I won't worry. I'm sure to grab my Coke before making my way back to Peter.

He's watching the men's room door. As soon as I exit he sees me and quirks an eyebrow, questioning whether or not I've submitted to his request. My hand is patting the pocket full of underpants before I even realize what I'm doing. My blood rushes to my face and I feel it wash over me like a hot wave. He smiles and nods. A breath catches in my throat, but I have another slurp of my drink and keep walking back to him.

When I'm close he wraps an arm around me and pulls my back to his front. His hand is in my pocket before I know it. The pocket is small, but he takes his time, feeling around. I almost gasp, but catch myself and keep it in. His other hand is over my belly, pulling me back against him with gentle pressure. Before I know it he's removing the underwear and raising it to his nose. My body hides his movements from the thin crowd on the dance floor. I can hear him inhale. I don't know what to think. Then he does it again. Holy Fuck!

He's rubbing the briefs against my neck. I can feel the supple fabric catching on my moles and stubble. It feels soft, flocculent, almost like a feather gliding over my skin. He's rubbing it over and over my neck, absorbing my sweat. The sensation is making my nipples erect. I drop my head forward, unable to ignore the gentle caress.

“You showered before our date didn't you?” He asks, voice low and throaty.

I'm a little startled by his question, but answer it anyway. “Yes. Of course.”

His nose is in my ear, nuzzling, breath ghosting over my skin. “Next time don't. I want to be able to smell _you_ , not your soap.”

I gasp and then have to roll my shoulders down and curl and stretch my spine because of what he just said. My skin horripilates and I nearly do a back bend, or maybe a cartwheel. I'm pretty sure it was some type of gymnastic stunt that men my age don't really do, ever, even when learning that a potential lover has a scent kink and wants more of me to smell. Holy cow!

I'm almost stuttering when I answer him. “Sure thing, sir. No problem.”

He must have put my undies in his pocket because both of his hands are around my waist now and his fingers are traveling up to tweak my nipples, which makes me jump a little and take a breath. But I don't squeak, which comforts me.

He's talking to me again. “Now boy, we're moving to the dance floor. You will follow my lead. If anyone else tries to dance with us you will politely but firmly dissuade them. Do you understand son?”

I'm panting. “Yes sir, I understand. You are my date. I'm dancing with you.”

He's petting me now, rubbing my chest with one hand, rubbing my neck with the other. “Such a good boy.” He croons. I'm so aroused that my zipper is chafing.

Using the hand on my neck he guides me to the dance floor. The music is light, trendy. It fills my head and makes my body move in ways that signal my intent to Peter and anyone else who's watching me. This is my date for the night, and I am so hot for him. Peter seems pleased. As the music changes he inserts his leg between mine, inviting me to ride it while we gyrate to the beat. Good heavens! He feels so good against me. I'm hard and shameless, swinging my hips, rutting against him. His chest is pressed against mine, his hands in my back pockets, pulling me closer and closer to him. His tongue is licking my throat, nibbling my shoulder muscles. The music is pounding. Other dancers bump into us now and then, but they leave us our own bubble of space.

The music changes, slows. He pulls my head down so I can hear him above the noise. His mouth is pressed against my ear. “I want you to turn around so you can feel what you do to me son.”

I pull back, confused. He moves me around and I compliantly allow him to do it. He's behind me now, holding me close. I bend my knees so we fit together more completely. My ass is cradled against his cock and I can feel it pressing towards me. He's so fucking hard! I wish we weren't wearing trousers and he could bend me over right here on the dance floor. I want him to shove my face down, thrust inside of me and I want all these men to watch while he takes me and makes me his boy.

I'm panting. I know he can feel it because he's petting me again. Rubbing my belly and chest, murmuring quietly against my neck. I don't know what he's saying because the music and the crowd are so loud in this part of the club. I imagine him telling me how good I'm being, how much he approves of my cooperation and my response to his authority.

His hands are under my t-shirt, pinching my nipples, stroking my collar bones. I grind myself back against him openly. I can feel how he's reacting to me. How much he wants me.

Later, exhausted, he walks me to my car. He hasn't kissed me yet, but I hope he will. We've arranged a coffee date, for Thursday. I tell him my weekends are full, due to family obligations. He's so understanding, going as far as to claim he has family responsibilities of his own. He seems like such a lone wolf, it's hard to imagine him with a mom or siblings. He laughs when I tell him so.

That's when he leans in for the kiss. His tongue dominates my own. He pins it down, runs his own over my teeth, licks the insides of my cheeks. He chews my lips, biting almost too hard. He sucks my tongue back into his mouth and I feel the pull. I force my mouth closer and I feel him groan. It's heady stuff.

===

Peter watches his prey drive away. He's pleased. This one will be just as easy as he thought. He pauses briefly, removes the underwear from his pocket and sniffs it deeply. Conquering this prize will be so very sweet. With the underwear in one hand, and his phone in another he texts a single message.

**The foundation has been lain.**

Whistling to himself, Peter makes his way downtown to his apartment over the diner. His partner is waiting there for him, anxious for the details of his evening's entertainment.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning it takes some doing, but I have my armor in place by the time school starts. I can't believe I let Peter get so close so fast. I allowed him too much access to my inner needs; gave him too much influence. I will do better at our next meeting. It's just that my need has gone unmet for so long, and Peter is such a promising candidate. I let him in too deep, too fast and it's messing with the control I have over the rest of my life, the part that he cannot, _will not_ touch.

===

Teenagers are herd animals. The American public school system separates the weakest animals from the herd and leaves them vulnerable. Some of them don't make it. Some drop out, some go to private schools or homeschool. Some give up and take their own lives, or the lives of other students. As part of the system, my job is to select a handful of the weak links every semester and hound them until they break. I've had time to perfect my technique and I'm able to predict the ones who will buckle under my malignant ministrations.

Last year I found a small group attempting to find solace in one another, so they wouldn't be quite so vulnerable to the slings and arrows of high school society. There's a quivering coward named Isaac, by far the most skittish and easily intimidated. There's Scott, a brainless asthmatic with impulse control issues. But the most infuriatingly deficient is a foolish, hyperactive twit named Stiles. As if that were a proper name. Pah! I am filled with loathing and contempt for these pathetic excuses for humanity. They need to recognize their weaknesses and withdraw themselves from the rest of high school society. We would all be much better off if the high school no longer needed to accommodate their frailties and excessive neediness. 

Last year I was able to exercise my tyranny over them with little censure from other students or the faculty. This year, it has been much the same. In physics class I can sense Stiles squirming while we go over last night's homework. He will be a perfect victim today. When the girl in front of him is unable to give the correct answer I rest my eyes upon him. Oh, he squirms so uncomfortably. His legs bounce frantically. He's barely able to remain in his seat. I apply the fulcrum of my will and gloat with anticipation. I relish the expression on student's faces when I catch them unawares, then dash their hopes of being invisible by forcing them to reveal their dirty, shameful secret, the fact that they haven't done their homework. I live for that expression of sickened humiliation, as if given the chance they would vomit their own ignorance into the aisle.

Blast it all! He surprises me and shares the correct answer. I am not pleased so I immediately issue a pop quiz. My job is to sort the wheat from the chaff and then watch the chaff burn. Stiles may not be burning yet, but he is certainly beginning to spark. I look forward to blowing that spark into the flame of Stiles' own destruction.

===

When I arrive home late that afternoon there is a package waiting for me. I open it and find an expensive pair of designer men's underwear. They're soft and skimpy with gray and black stripes. I look at them and know how good they will look on me. An enclosed note from Peter instructs me to wear them on Thursday, to our coffee date. It reminds me not to bathe before hand. I nearly choke with anticipation.

===

Wednesday night I do my grocery shopping. The store is relatively empty so I'm less likely to run into students and their overbearing parents. I'm in the soup aisle, choosing between bean and bacon or clam chowder when I hear his voice.

“What is it you're trying to make for your father Stiles? Lowfat lasagna? I'm not sure that's really possible.” Peter says.

“Well Mr. Wolfram, I thought I would just use all lowfat ingredients. Like lowfat cheese, lowfat Italian sausage, fat free spaghetti sauce. I mean wouldn't that work? And maybe I could add some veggies. You know like zucchini or eggplant.” Stiles says with a wave of his arms.

I see them and Stiles is blithering on like the idiot I know him to be. Peter is making an impatient face. I can tell he is loath to speak with the child any longer.

“Which do you think would be better Mr. Wolfram? Zucchini or eggplant? Or maybe spinach? I think spinach is on sale.” Stiles says.

As I approach closer I can sense how very annoyed Peter really is.

I look around, to see if Sheriff Stilinski, Stiles' father, is anywhere nearby. I don't see him, so I approach Peter and take a chance.

“Mr. Wolfram. How nice to see you.” I say, then bite my tongue to ensure I remain silent. I stand there, with my professional smile firmly in place.

Peter looks up and relief washes over his face like a warm wave. His eyes light up with a genuine smile. “Mr. Harris, always a pleasure.” he says, then glances down at Stiles and back up at me, face full of long-suffering forbearance.

“Mr. Wolfram, I didn't know you knew any of my students.” I say, giving Stiles a condescending frown. The boy needs to take the hint and leave Peter alone.

“Stiles is one of you students?” Peter inquires, one eyebrow raised.

I nod and am just about to speak when Stiles interrupts me.

He says, “Yeah, I know Mr. Harris, because he's my science teacher. I know Mr. Wolfram because I'm friends with his nephew. What I want to know, is how you guys know each other?” Stiles is squinting and looking at both of us in turn.

Peter clears his throat with a small cough. “We share social and business interests Stiles. Now if you'll excuse me, Mr. Harris and I have matters to discuss.”

Peter steers around Stiles, who is standing there watching up with an open mouth. “What about my lasagna?”

“I'm certain you'll do fine Stiles. It sounds like you had a good handle on the procedure.” Peter says as he steers my cart down another aisle. We walk companionably for a bit before he asks, “Is that child gone now? I'm afraid to look back.”

I snort out loud then catch myself before it turns into a full guffaw. With a surreptitious look behind us and before us I quietly answer him. “Yes, he appears to be gone. We could check the checkout if you like. To make certain.”

He reaches to pat my hand. “That won't be necessary Adrian. I trust your judgment.”

I stand a little straighter and try to suppress my inevitable preening. “Thank-you Peter. That means a great deal to me.”

He pats my hand one more time then removes it and gestures to the food on the shelves. “Continue shopping Adrian. I'll just accompany you briefly until I'm certain he's out of the parking lot.”

“Of course Peter.” I see we're in the pasta aisle and begin looking for my favorite mac and cheese.

He studies the food nonchalantly and looks over the items in the hand basket he's carrying. “I assume you received my gift?” He asks with a quirked eyebrow. His face is otherwise placid.

Just the thought of it sends my blood racing. I feel my ears and neck heat with my rushing blood. I have to clear my throat before I can continue. I glance back at Peter then look away quickly. I can't look at him again. My heavens he gets under my skin.

“Yes.” I say, forcing my voice to remain calm. “I received your gift and it appears to be good quality. I'm sure it, or um, they, will be quite well suited for me.” My ears are still pink and they are growing redder with the speed of my pulse.

He smiles at me benevolently and I feel gratified beyond my ability to measure. “Good boy. I knew they would be appropriate for the circumstances.”

“Most certainly.” I confirm, finally finding the correct mac and cheese and tossing a couple of boxes into my cart. “Is there anything else I can do to prepare properly?” I ask, almost panting with the anticipation rising in my gullet.

Peter raises his eyes to mine. His face is suddenly quite blank. He steps up close to me and places his hand heavily upon the back of my neck. He squeezes and I take in a quick breath. Oh dear, have I been good or bad? I try to steady my breath as he holds my eyes with his. My stomach is fluttering. I may be sick.

“Breathe boy.” He orders with a harsh, guttural growl. “Slow and steady.”

I nod and do as he asks, slowing down my breathing, continuing to keep my eyes on his.

He steps forward again, angling his mouth closer to my ear. “You are such a good boy.” His voice is low and deep. “So willing to please me.” His hand strokes my neck firmly.

I nod and continue to breathe.

“Are you sure you're up for something more?” Peter asks.

I nod again, then manage to speak. “Y-y-yes sir. I am. Certain, I mean.”

“Mmm. Such an eager boy. Such a cooperative spirit.”

I nod again, relishing his breath on my ear, his guiding hand on the top of spine. “Yes sir. I-i-i. I want to please you sir.”

He's nearly purring in my ear. “Oh, Adrian, the things I want to do to you....” He shakes his head then drops his voice to a low whisper. “If you are certain you're ready for something more then I have one request.”

I look at him and nod vigorously.

Peter continues. “Don't orgasm until our date. Don't touch yourself. Don't allow anyone else to touch you. Hold back, until tomorrow.” He pulls back from my ear a few inches. “Do you think you can do that for me, dear?”

I nod. “Of course Peter. Yes. No problem. It would be my pleasure to accommodate you in that way.”

“Good Adrian. I'll find a suitable reward if you're able to follow my directions.”

I nod again, not trusting myself to speak. Peter steps back, giving my neck one last squeeze before putting more distance between us.

“Excellent Mr. Harris.” His voice is louder, at a normal social level. His distance from me is appropriate for the setting. I feel the loss of his proximity like a yawning divide. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Such a pleasure to bump into you.” He smiles at the last part and it feels like the sun on my face.

“I look forward to it Mr. Wolfram.” I duck my head, but maintain my professional air, or at least I try to. I'm not sure that I'm as successful as I intend.

As I complete my shopping I feel the ghost of his fingers on the back of my neck. I recount the sound of his voice as he calls me eager and praises my cooperative spirit. Replaying it over and over in my mind, I parse the inflections of his voice, ride the pleasure of his approval like a surfer rides a wave. It feels so very good to have this man's regard, to know that my compliance is pleasing to him. There is so much more I want to do for him, so much more I want him to do to me.

The anticipation has me so hard I find myself hiding behind my shopping cart to disguise my arousal. I've promised not to touch myself in that way. Normally it would take little effort to dissuade myself from such a selfish activity. After speaking with him though, after feeling his fingers hard and tight around the back of my neck, the effort is more straining than I expected. Twenty-four hours until our date, and I'm not sure how I'll maintain my promise. The sweet agony distracts me from the irritation I would normally feel at meeting a student at the market. The annoyance of Stiles pales in Peter's presence.  Peter who fills my senses and offers me so much blissful enticement. Peter who I will not fail, who I will meet tomorrow, overcome with my arousal and eager to please.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes the coffee shop named [Allure](http://archiveofourown.org/works/825407) and it's owner [Ms Lily](http://archiveofourown.org/works/825407), both of which are not my invention. They were imagined by a talented new author, [SymChaosBec](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SymChaosBec). Both the coffee shop and Ms. Lily appear in his fic ["Just a dash of lust (to sate his hunger)"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/825407). While reading his story, I fell in love with the coffee shop and Ms Lily and asked to use them in this scene. He was kind enough to oblige me. 
> 
> Thanks again SymChaosBec!

In the morning I take the time to wash thoroughly because I know I won't be getting another chance until after my date. My dick is hard but I ignore it's silent plea in an effort to honor Peter's request. Denying myself is like tinder to the flame of my arousal. His effortless control, his parsimonious praise, the way he fills out a pair of jeans, it all tempts me to rush into things. I remind myself not to be in a hurry. I don't know this man from Adam. I will take my time, make absolutely certain that I can trust him, and then I will give myself over to him and do everything in my power to make him proud. Ruthlessly I force that idea to the back of mind, and chain it inside a metaphorical box so it will be unable to distract me during my work day. I only allow my desires to peek out briefly as I slither into the briefs he chose for me. I admire myself in the mirror. The way they are cut makes the most of my skinny rear end, while lifting my package and almost displaying it like fruit in a bowl. The gray and black horizontal stripes make my pale skin appear luminous while adding just enough illusion of width to my hips and ass. He couldn't have chosen better if he was a professional underwear stylist. As I continue to contemplate my appearance in the mirror I wonder if perhaps he is. I definitely need to learn more about this man.

===

Like Sunnydale, the town which lays on the other side of the forest preserve, and Cabot Cove—in Main, like New Orleans and Shreveport, both in Louisiana; Beacon Hills, California has a long history with the supernatural. It's one of the reasons Peter remains, even when his nephew's pack is sometimes less than accommodating of his chosen path to wellness. Still, Beacon Hills has enough supernatural residents that he's been able to find allies here and there among the populous.

This brings him to his current location, [Allure](../../825407), the best coffee shop in Beacon Hills and the only one owned by a sex demon. [Ms Lily](../../825407), the proprietress, has known Peter since he was an adolescent with his first crush. She was old even then, although at the time she had appeared to be a loud, brash goth chick with black lipstick and a prominent nose piercing that gave him wet dreams for a full year. Now she is a petite middle-aged Filipino woman with long black hair and a fit body, tight enough to rival any teenager's.

As he enters, Peter glances over the place, taking in the artwork from local artists that tightly crowds the dark red walls. For a small fee local artists can display their work without the cost and commitment of a permanent gallery. Several local success stories received their start right here, at Allure in Beacon Hills. The back wall is lined with sturdy book shelves. Residents donate used books and magazines. Patrons are welcome to choose any book they like and take it home for free. Ms Lily encourages them to bring back another in return, but she doesn't keep score, at least not of the books.

Peter takes in a deep breath. The mingled odors of coffee, pastry and sex demon fill his olfactory receptors and settle his mind. Allure was the perfect choice for the second date. He has several points of his trap to lay tonight, and is looking forward to the precise placement of each and every piece.

===

I'm sitting in one of the easy chairs in the back, carefully positioned to keep an eye on the door. It's not a busy time of night, so there is plenty of open seating. I've chosen a paperback copy of _Cold Comfort Farm_ by Stella Gibbons to read while I wait. I'm early, but not obnoxiously so. When Peter walks in he looks like he owns the place. He may very well, for all I know. We've both been circumspect with the personal information we've shared. It's time to rectify the situation. Tonight we'll share more about ourselves; I'll make certain of it.

Peter walks up to the counter to place his order. The barista, an Asian woman in her 40's, lights up like the fourth of July when she sees him. She comes around the counter to give him a big hug. I watch, intrigued.

“Peter, Peter, such a lovely surprise!” She is hugging him, pressing herself against him, full body. Peter wraps his hand in her ponytail and tips her head back, exposing the length of her neck. Then he runs his nose up one side of her pulse, across her jaw, and down the other side, to the hollow of her throat.

The woman gives a throaty laugh and pulls her head forward, forcing Peter to lighten his grip on her hair or create a scene better kept behind closed doors. I imagine him pulling my hair again and find myself almost wishing I had a long ponytail for him to grab and yank. A tendril of jealously rises in my belly. I'm not sure if Peter's _played_ with the woman before, in the way I'm hoping he will play with me, or if he's more attracted to her because she's female. I'm feeling uncertain again, worrying that perhaps I shouldn't have come. Maybe I need to nip this acquaintanceship in the bud and find another way to satisfy my needs. Dammit! I want something solid! I need to see this thing with Peter through to the end, see if it can be as good as I hope. I'm uncomfortable with my train of thought so I tune back into Peter.

“Lily, always so beautiful.” He smirks, then kisses both of her cheeks, one after the other. It's very European of him and it fills my throat with bile.

The barista places a fond hand on his cheek. “You are so handsome young Peter. Your skin is baby fine. It's good to see you looking so healthy and strong. Now, what can I get for you?”

Peter orders a cappuccino, takes the time to kiss the barista's hand, and then moves to find me.

I stand as he approaches and offer my hand to him. He raises it to his mouth the same way he did the barista's, and kisses it lightly. Then he flips my hand over and kisses my wrist too. It makes my breath catch. “Peter, so nice to see you again.”

He offers me a small smile. “Adrian.”

“Where do you prefer to sit sir?” I'm looking around the coffee shop. There are plenty of tables open, plus one of the couches.

He points to a table tucked in an out of the way corner. “We'll sit there. I haven't been here in a while though. You may sit while I examine the art.”

Dismissed,  I do as he says. I sit there and watch him wander the coffee shop, examining the art work hanging on the walls. At one point he pauses to make notes to himself about a particular piece. I saw it when I arrived. It's a large dog and a young boy playing in the forest. At first glance it seems as if the dog is chasing the boy to gobble him up, but at second glance you can see they are both smiling; the boy reaching for the dog, even as they run. It didn't seem especially good to me. I mean technically it was fine, but the subject matter was plebeian at best.

At last Peter is walking back to me, sitting with me, taking my hand in both of his and holding me still. “You're quite good at taking directions Adrian. I can see you're very motivated to develop this relationship between us.”

I blush and grin and duck my head briefly, before looking back up at him. “Yes sir. I am definitely motivated.”

“Did you wear my gift and follow my instructions?” He asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes I did. I wore them and followed both sets of your instructions.” I nearly duck my head again, but force myself to keep to looking at him. I lower my voice so the other patrons won't hear me. “It was challenging to keep from touching myself, sir. Especially after putting on the um, underwear. It's so soft and feels so good. Plus, following your instructions was—stimulating.”

He looks thoughtful. “Does it really feel that good to wear them? I hoped it might.”

“Yes, they feel good, and I was pleased with how they looked on me. I was hoping you might want to see for yourself?” I'm a little nervous about being so forward.

“Maybe later.” Peter says mildly. “I do owe you a reward for being such a good boy.”

I find myself blushing again. “Yes sir. I'll follow your lead.”

Peter looks me over and gives my hand a squeeze. “Now Adrian, tell me what you're looking for in this relationship, and what you need to feel comfortable in it.”

Peter keeps my hand in his while we talk, which makes it easier to explain what I want. He's very receptive, just like he was in our chats. I tell him I'm looking for a role playing relationship with a daddy figure and that what I want most from it is to be given tasks I can accomplish and a warm, affectionate figure of authority who I can please.

He asks me about hard limits, soft limits and safe words. He wants to know what kind of experience I've had in the past and where I'd like the scenes to take place. He tells me what his expectations are and what he potentially wants from me.

“One thing in particular.” He explains after a sip of his coffee. “I'm not comfortable with the term daddy. You'll notice in my online moniker I used the term Papa instead. When we're in a scene, or even just being playful, I expect you to refer to me as Papa, never daddy or even dad. Is that clear?”

I nod, “We all have our preferences. That won't be a problem for me.” I mean what I say. It's not much of an issue for me, but apparently it's quite significant for Peter. For all I know Peter may have daddy issues of his own. For the moment I'm content to let the issue drop, but I quietly maintain the right to bring it up again, at a later date. For the most part we seem compatible and as soon as he tells me more about himself, I'll be willing to take our budding relationship to the next level.

He's cooperative, if not exactly loquacious. He grew up in the area, but left 6 or 7 years ago so he could address a few pressing health issues. He was able to overcome them with proper treatment. He doesn't go into a great deal of detail, but apparently he was quite debilitated for a while. He rises in my esteem as I realize how much determination and hard work he must have exerted to regain his health so fully.

“You're so strong and fit now.” I say, eying his muscles. “You must have been really motivated.”

He grins and his eyes sparkle briefly. “Motivation is often the key to recovery. I must agree.”

Finally it's 11:30pm and the shop is closing. It's been empty for half an hour, while the barista cleaned. She allowed us to stay as a favor to Peter, who claims she is an old friend of the family.

The three of us are leaving together. Peter holds the door for the barista and myself. As we're exiting a large man in a ski mask rushes by us, knocking us over and grabbing the barista's bag. I try to grab him, but he's slippery and hard to catch. I do get a good look at his gray-green eyes before he takes off around the corner of the building. Peter turns to the barista and myself, asks if we're okay. I believe we both nod and then Peter is off and running after the thief. I sit there for a moment, catching my breath, taking stock of all my body parts. I may be a little bruised, but for the most part I'm okay. I help the barista to her feet, not from a sense of obligation, but because I'm certain Peter would expect me to.

The barista pats my cheek which makes me uncomfortable, but I endure it as best I'm able.

It's been a few minutes and I'm thinking that I should go after Peter when he suddenly appears around the corner of the building, holding the purse triumphantly in his hands. He makes an elaborate gesture and hands it over to the barista. “For you my fair maiden.” he says with a bow.

The barista cackles. “You are a tricky boy young Peter.” She lifts her face up to his, clearly expecting a kiss. He presses his lips to hers briefly. I'm confused because she keeps calling him young, when she's not much older than he, five years at the most.

“And you are a crafty old woman.” He responds with a wink.

I'm feeling left out, like there's something going on that I'm not privy to and that makes me defensive.

I look at Peter and then the woman and then, without a word, I turn on my heel and walk back to my car. I refuse to be with someone who is more interested in the help than he is in me.

I'm nearly at my car when I feel a strong hand on shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. Peter knocks my legs about a foot apart, shoves me up against my car and plasters himself to my back. He shoves his leg between mine, messing with my balance. One hand pulls my head to the side while the other lays heavily upon my crotch.

He leans in closely and growls in my ear. “I will not tolerate petulance when you're with me Adrian. You will be polite at all times, especially to others. You are free to be angry with me, but you will not be rude under any circumstances! Do you understand me _boy_!”

I manage a sideways nod. “Yes Peter. I understand.” His leg is keeping my stance unstable. My neck is stretching awkwardly. My breath is coming in short pants. I didn't expect him to call me on this, not so soon into the relationship.

He licks my neck from shoulder to ear then bites down on my earlobe. It hurts, but I like it. Peter can tell because the hand on my crotch is rubbing against me. He can feel what he's doing to me, and I wonder what he'll do next.

“The night has been so good up until now, and you were so good to follow all of my earlier instructions.” He's biting small kisses down my neck. “Let's put this behind us for now and I'll give you that reward we discussed earlier. Hmm? Would you like that?”

“Yes sir.” I breathe, getting caught up in his kisses and beginning to lose myself to his ministrations.

“All right then boy, into the backseat and off with your jeans. I want to see if those briefs look as good as you said.”

He releases me from his grip and I'm scrabbling into the back seat, frantically working the button and zipper on my jeans, hoping to remove them before he changes his mind. I'm moving too fast and get stuck with my shoes, which I have to take off before I can get out of my jeans. Finally I'm down to my t-shirt and the beautiful striped underwear.

Peter stands at the open door. It's dark in the parking lot and late enough that we're not in danger of being seen. Peter is looking at me, eyes dark and filling with lust. “Roll over.” He orders. “Hands and knees, I want to see how they fit your ass.”

I swallow my belly back down from my throat and do as he says. I'm in the backseat, head resting on my hands, weight on my knees, ass up in the air. I feel the cool air from outside playing over my legs. The feeling is exquisite. His hand reaches forward and caresses my ass, squeezing it just a little too hard. It's like he knows what I want, without even needing to be told. He runs a finger up and down the center of my ass, teasing just outside the cleft. I squeeze my hands into my hair and suppress a shiver.

“Turn over.” He commands, voice low and thoaty.

I do so, laying myself out in the backseat, looking up at him. I want to touch myself, but he hasn't told me to, so I hold my hands together over my chest. I look up at him, studying his face, the way his eyes are trained on the underwear. He must notice how good they look because he cannot tear his eyes from my crotch.

“They fit perfectly.” I manage. He glances up at me, then back down. “The underwear, I mean. They fit just right.”

He nods then leans forward and rubs his cheek against the briefs. “They are exactly right.” He agrees, then lifts his head and strokes over my crotch with his hand. I catch my breath and arch up into his touch.

“Like that do you?” Peter chuckles and I nod. He continues stroking, up and down, providing a light friction against my erection. He's leaning between my spread legs, using one of his hands to push them even farther apart. I can feel the stretch in my thigh muscles and it feels good.

“I'll tell you what.” He says in a conversational tone. “You were so very good at following my instructions that you definitely deserve a reward. With that touch of brattiness at the end though, it wouldn't be appropriate for me to make it too easy on you. So here's the deal I offer you.”

He's leering at me and I'm doing my best to listen to his words instead of losing myself in his touch. I nod because at this point it's the best I can do.

“I'll continue to stimulate you, over the underwear, for two full minutes. If you can come in that time then I will be pleased. If not, then you have to wait until our next meeting to come again. And that won't be until Monday, so you'll have to go the entire weekend without touching yourself. Do you understand boy? Do you think you can do that _son_?”

My God in heaven my mind is reeling and my body is squirming. I nod briskly in agreement.

“Use your words son. I need to hear you agree.”

I suck in a ragged breath. “Yes Papa. I can do that for you.”

Peter lips are curled into a feral grin. He glances at his watch. “Time starts now boy.”

I'm arching into his touch, which is firm and strong against my cock. He takes his second hand and rubs his palm against my balls, lets his fingers drop even lower to press against my hole. He doesn't breech me, but he presses and it feels so good. The hand on my cock is harsh and rough. He's not being gentle and he's giving me exactly what I want. I'm bucking against him, trying to get what I need, trying to give him what he wants from me. Before I realize it my fingers are pinching my nipples. My mouth is open and my tongue is laying fat and pink between my lips. “Harder.” I whisper, hoping it won't make him stop entirely.

It must not make him angry though, because he rubs harder, the friction of the soft fabric abrading my skin. If I weren't caught in the moment, this might hurt, but right now it feels so good. I'm almost there, panting, sweating, trying not to think about how much time I have left. Trying just to concentrate on his hands and my cock and how badly I want to please him.

Peter is watching me still, waiting to see if I'll make it in time. He glances at his watch, then back at me. I'm almost there, almost able to cross that divide.

His voice is harsh, filled with authority. “Come for me son. Come now. Come for Papa.”

“Yes Papa.” I whisper, choking on my own tongue as my orgasm punches up from my spine and spills out of my cock in fat, sticky threads. I'm moaning and groaning, senseless with my ramblings.

Peter has pulled me up. He's holding me, petting my hair as he rocks us gently. “Such a good boy. You've made Papa so proud. Any father would be proud to have a son like you. Look how obedient you were, coming when you were told. Wearing these sexy underwear just for me. Your tight ass covered in those tiny briefs, tempting me to do so many naughty things to my faithful boy. You'd like that wouldn't you son? You'd like your Papa to make your do all those naughty things you keep locked up in your fantasies. Next time baby boy. Next time we'll do so much more.”

I'm panting, feeling the emotion well up inside me so thick and heavy that tears spill down my cheeks. They're not sad tears, just an expression of more emotion than I can hold. Peter licks them from my cheeks and kisses me long and deep, forcing me to control my breathing until I'm back to normal.

“You doing okay Adrian?” Peter murmurs in my ear.

I nod against him, “Yeah. I'm good now.”

He pulls away, looks me in the eye. “You sure?”

I nod again.

“Alright then boy, give me your underwear and put your jeans back on.”

I pause and stare at him in confusion for a moment. Then his words make sense. He wants these underwear too. Maybe he has an underwear kink. I'll have to ask him about it next time. This time I just do as he asks, handing over my damp undies and pulling on my jeans.

We make an appointment for Monday at my house. He's only recently moved into his apartment and is still unpacking. For what we have planned, a bed makes thing easier. As I haul myself out of the backseat I notice him bringing the underwear up to his nose and taking a deep whiff.

He sees me watching and offers me a devilish grin. “I'll make sure you have a new pair for next time. I'm keeping these.” I'm not sure what to think, but my dick is struggling to get hard again at the thought of him smelling them while he jerks off. I don't know what I did to deserve this man, but it must have been something good.

===

The prey drives off as Peter turns to walk home. It's only a few blocks. Lily knew something was up, but was cooperative as Peter knew she would be. She'll be expecting payment, but that shouldn't be a hardship. The prey has no idea that he is entangling himself deeper and deeper within Peter's web. Peter smiles with the satisfaction of a job well done. It should only take a handful more dates to spring his trap.

He takes out his cell phone and sends a text.

**Item acquired. Plan to celebrate.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so writing this sort of gave me the woogalies, but I wrote it anyway because the payoff in the end will so be worth it. Stick with me folks, I promise the ending is satisfying and full of surprises. If things go well, there will be an update in the next 24 hours or so.

My weekend is filled with maternal guilt, multiple failed attempts to avoid my aunts and fantasies of my date with Peter on Monday night. We manage to text through the negotiations for the scene he's planning and it leaves me nearly nauseous with anticipation.

Sunday afternoon, when I arrive home, there's a box waiting for me. I'm pretty certain what they are. Once inside I open it to discover a new pair of designer men's underwear. I knew it! These are heather blue with tiny red arrows. They're wrapped in scented tissue paper and artfully arranged in what resembles a sturdy take-out sushi box. It's very high-end and I'm beginning to suspect the underwear costs more than a pair of my good shoes.

Monday I take a few moments to admire the new undies. They fit like the first pair, offering up my package like plump grapes in a Roman orgy. A brief fantasy of Peter as a member of the Roman aristocracy and myself as his house boy flashes through my mind. My cock is instantly hard. Getting dressed today is not going to be an easy feat. Accepting the inevitable I choose a baggy pair of slacks for the day. There will be more room to hide any errant erections, which will almost certainly plague me throughout the day. I can put on my tight jeans later, before my date.

I'm itchy and irritated at work, but I've learned to use those feelings to my advantage. I exert my cold wrath upon my students and by lunch I'm feeling more like myself. After lunch I find the men's room to relieve myself. I always choose a stall in a seldom used restroom because high school children are opportunists and I will never give them the opportunity to catch me with my pants down. They would be too quick to take advantage of the situation. While I'm in the stall I hear someone enter, several someones, and then the sounds of a scuffle. This is the type of incident I live for.

When I've completed my task I take the time to scrutinize the situation from the between the cracks of the stall. To my delight the handsome new twins are terrorizing young Stiles. I take the time to watch gleefully for several moments, appreciating the swelling that has already commenced upon his face and neck. The universe can be so benevolent upon occasion, granting boons when one least expects it. I smile and speculate upon my good luck as I watch the twins repeatedly terrorize Stiles with physical force. Eventually the alarm rings. I shake my head in disappointment and take a moment to adjust my erection before leaving the stall. The twins have Stiles down on the floor now, growling and grumbling in his face, threatening him with more injury if he doesn't tell them what they want to know. They look up as I exit. I glance them over, but maintain my careful air of detachment. After washing and drying my hands I look back over at them.

“Carry on gentlemen. Pay me not mind whatsoever.” I smirk and walk to my class. On my way I notice Isaac and Scott wandering the halls; searching them really, with flared nostrils and a frantic air. I'm almost certain they're looking for their missing comrade, but keep my knowledge of his whereabouts to myself. No point in making things too easy for them, and besides the stink of Stiles' fear, the helplessness he showed before the two larger, stronger boys, is the very thing that makes teaching high school worthwhile. I'm not about to ruin things for myself by interfering with the natural order of things.

===

When Peter arrives I feel like a cartoon character with my tongue rolling out of my mouth like a red carpet. His dark hair slicked back. He has on horn rimmed glasses, corduroy slacks, a button down shirt andsweater vest. If he had a pipe he would look just like a sexy version of [Ward Cleaver](http://www.blogcdn.com/www.shelterpop.com/media/2010/10/beaver-hugh-beaumont-ward-cleaver-barbara-bilingsley-june-590jn102010.jpg), or [the dad](http://www.gpb.org/files/imagecache/newsArticle/npr/images/mythreesons.jpg) from _My Three Sons_. I'm so turned on I nearly come on my bare feet. I goggle and stutter and stare at him with my mouth open and my dick hard.

He runs his hand through his hair and gives me a sardonic smile. “May I interpret from your reaction that you approve?”

I can't talk yet, so I just nod. In case he's not certain of my approval I bob my head some more, vigorously.

Inside I point out the large easy chair he had asked about in our texts. He nods and sits, arranging himself like a king. “This is perfect.”

His approval and his outfit have me feeling like a puppy, wagging my tail for my master. Peter sees me; he sees inside of me, and pats his lap. “Come sit on Papa's lap, son.” He orders with a stern expression and glittering eyes. I'm quick to obey.

On his lap, he places an arm loosely around me and moves my head down to his shoulder. He rests his hand over my neck, as I've become accustomed to him doing. The other hand rubs gently up and down my torso, occasionally reaching down to pat my bottom. I curl up, trying to become small and not too needy in my Papa's lap. The hand on my neck squeezes lightly while the other one pats and rubs absentmindedly. I cuddle into Papa's arms, feeling the soft scratchy texture of his sweater vest on my face. I feel the tension from the weekend and from my life in general, slowly dissipate. The barbaric children from school with their petty dramas and inferior instincts leave my mind as a deep sigh escapes me. It feels so good to let go and be the boy instead of the man.

Peter is murmuring to me as I allow myself to descend to the place in my head where Peter is my Lord and I am his humble servant.  He's petting my hair, my arms, my neck and back, sussurrating sweet nothings into my ear. One last shuddering breath brings me down to the mental space I've been craving for so long.

“There's my boy.” Peter sing songs in my ear. “That's who I was looking for. My sweet, sweet boy. I'm so happy to see you. To have you on my lap. Such a sweet boy on Papa's lap. I knew you were in there. I wanted to see you son. To sit you in Papa's chair and tell you what a good boy you are. How proud I am of you and how well you obey your Papa.”

I'm smiling. My grin is ripping my face nearly in two. Peter is snuzzling into my neck, rubbing his hand over my face, my head and neck. “I missed you Papa.” I can't help myself from saying in a small voice. “I was alone for so long and I kept hoping you would come and take care of me. But I couldn't find you and I was lonely and it was so hard to be the grownup all the time, _all the time_. Where were you Papa? Why wouldn't you come when I cried?” I'm nearly in tears as I finish. It's such a relief to have this time, to let this part of myself free.

Peter's body fills with tension at my words. His hand is still stroking my hair, but his body is rigid and I can feel his hesitation. Aww Fuck! Why did I go there? If I could just hold this shit back then I could relax into his arms and let myself feel so good while he fucks my ass into the floor. Me and my big fucking mouth. I manage to keep it shut during the day. I can keep it shut on the job. But when I let down all my barriers, all the shields I maintain to keep functioning, this is the shit that comes out of my mouth. Fuck! I'm almost ready to crawl out of Peter's lap, out of the safety I feel in my Papa's arms and walk him to the door and send him on his way. I'm thinking it over, trying to decide if I should wait him out or if it's finally time for me to cut my losses.

Then Peter is comforting me in a voice that's soft and mild, almost singsong as he murmurs to me. “I'm so sorry son. I'm sorry I was gone for so long. I had grownup things to do. I had to work and I had to make a safe place for my boy, so he could let it all go and forget about the big scary world for a little while, and just be my boy for a change.

“Sometimes little boys have to wait for their Papas. Sometimes little boys have a Papa who isn't a good fit, and then the boy has to find a new Papa and it's scary and takes a lot of work and the boy has to be extra careful to be safe when he finds a new Papa. Do you understand son?”

I'm shaking my head because I _do not_ understand. “It was so scary on my own Papa. I was afraid and there was no one to take care of me.”

He's shushing me now, rocking back and forth. He raises his hand to his face and inhales deeply, then rubs it over my neck again. He's relaxing, centering himself with my scent.

“I'll make a deal with you son.” He lifts my face so I h ave to look him directly in the eyes. “Are you listening to me now?” He asks, face serious and filled with concern. “This is important, I need you to pay attention.”

I nod. “Yes Papa. I'm listening.”

Holding my face so I can't look away he speaks directly to me. “When I have to leave you son I'll make sure there is a new Papa to take care of you. A strong, painstaking man, who will keep you close and meet your every need. Do you understand? I can't be your Papa forever, but before I leave you, I'll give you a new Papa, a daddy of your very own who might give you a brother to play with and who will never make you be the grownup again.”

I almost start to cry. “I don't want a new Papa.” I stutter. “ _You're_ my new Papa and I'm keeping _you_.”

Peter pets me again. “Yes son, that's fine. Don't' worry about your pretty little head about it. That's grownup stuff and you don't need to give it a second thought.” He inhales deeply from the back of my neck.

“Now tell me boy. What is it you want to do with Papa today? Did you have something in mind? Hmm? Or do you need Papa to decide?”

I'm quiet, taking the time to put all of the grownup worries to the back of my mind and allow myself, my need to come fully to the forefront. Peter waits patiently. He seems to understand that I need time to make sense of things.

Finally I'm able to talk, but my voice is still small, hesitant. I hold one of his hands in mine, petting it, rubbing each finger individually and kissing them one at a time. “Do you remember Papa? When I was a bad boy and rude to you and your friend at the coffee shop?”

Peter nods. “Yes. I remember son. You were a naughty boy, as I remember. You forgot your place.”

I'm gaining a little confidence so I continue in a stronger voice. “I was very naughty and afterwards I was ashamed of myself Papa. And I'm very little and I think I'm too little to carry around that much shame.” I 'm biting my lip, stretching my neck up to catch a glimpse of his eyes.

“Yes son, I remember you were quite willful. You are a very little boy to keep so many bad feelings inside. What do you need me to do to help you son?”

I take a deep breath for courage. I'm not sure this is the right thing to say, but Peter seems to understand me even better than I understand myself. “I was very naughty Papa, and I need you to spank me until I'm good again?” I peek up at him again. His nose is flared and eyes are glittery, dark with arousal. “Can you do that for me Papa? Can you make me a good boy again? Your good boy?”

Peter's hand is tight on my neck, the other hand is petting my thighs. “Yes boy. I can spank you until you're Papa's good boy again.”

Peter is leaning forward, lifting me out of his lap and standing me upright. I forget how strong he really is. He's shorter than I am by several inches, but he can still manhandle me like I'm half his size. He's so handsome in his 1950's classic TV dad outfit that it distracts me. I want him to dress this way all the time and to look at me sternly and cluck his tongue at me. Peter looks me up and down, then settles on my face.

“Adrian.” Peter says, using my name to make certain I'm paying attention. As if I could think of any thing except him. He's frowning, but not unkindly. “Do you want your spanking here in Papa's big chair or in the bedroom?”

I stand there, limbs loose, hands at my side, breathing steady. “Here in your big chair Papa.”

“Okay boy. But first, make sure that the shades are drawn and the doors are locked so we'll have plenty of privacy. Then come back in here and take off your jeans and your t-shirt. Fold them neatly and stand before me in your pretty new underwear. Any questions?”

I tell him no and speed off with youthful energy to double check all of the doors and windows. When I'm finished I stand in front of him, breath coming in short pants as I slowly remove my jeans and then my plain t-shirt. I fold them carefully and place them on the coffee table. I stand before my Papa, in the underwear he bought me, breathing slow and easy. This is good and right. This is the way it should be.


	6. Chapter 6

Papa is looking me over purposefully. He starts at my feet and takes me in with his eyes, pausing on my erection, barely contained in the new briefs he provided me to wear for his pleasure. I'm antsy and twitchy under his gaze.

His voice is rough and strong. “Stand still boy! Stop fidgeting!” I do my best to obey. His eyes follow my belly and then my chest up until his piercing gaze reaches my own more hesitant glance.

He reaches a hand out to pinch one of my nipples, then the other. He takes no care to be gentle, but squeezes hard so I suck in a quick breath.

“Tell me your safe words son.” Peter orders with a harsh look and a lick of his lips.

I'm careful to stand straight and tall as I tell him, “Red, yellow, green, like a traffic light, sir.”

He nods, pleased, I hope, with my quick response.

“All right son. Lay yourself on Papa's lap. I need your bottom right here so I can spank it properly.”

My ears are hot and red and it takes more self-control than I would have expected to lay myself over Papa's lap in his big chair. I'm so tall that I'm forced to keep both my feet on the floor while my hands touch down on the other side. Papa must notice because he spreads his legs further apart, upsetting my balance just enough to remind me that I am the little boy and he is the big, strong Papa. He rubs my back and my butt as I sink into contentment.

He talks to me as I relax into my position. “I'm doing this for your own good, boy. You cannot treat other people with such poor manners. And when you do, you must be punished. It's the only way you can be good again.”

I can feel his disappointment sinking into my skin with his gentle caress. I am ashamed of myself and what I have done to my good Papa. “I'm so sorry Papa.” I whine in a small, high voice. “I'm so sorry I disappointed you and behaved so badly.”

“I know you want to be good again son. I'm such a good Papa for you that I'm going to punish you until you all the bad comes out and you can be good again. Is that what you want boy? You want Papa to spank you until all the naughty bits are gone and only my good boy remains?”

I can't tell which fills me more full, the shame I feel for being such a naughty boy, or the arousal at the thought of Peter's firm hand on my bottom. “Yes Papa. Make me a good boy again.” I barely manage to whisper.

“Louder son. Let Papa hear your voice. Good boys always tell their Papa's what they need.”

I suck in my breath to steady myself and then say louder, “Make me good again Papa. Spank all the bad away so I can only be good for you.”

I can feel his approval in his touch. “Yes, son, I'll spank all the bad away.” His voice has taken on that soft lilt it sometimes does.

Eagerly, I nod my head in agreement. Good boys need spankings to keep them good. And I want to be my Papa's good boy. I want that more than anything.

Papa's hand is firm and hard. He spanks me with his open palm and it hurts, just the way it should. I'm good at receiving spankings so I try my best not to squirm or cry out. I try to be as still as I can while the rapid beat of Papa's hand on my bottom fills me with heat and a heady combination of pleasure and pain.

Papa is talking to me and I try to pay attention but the feel of his hand on my naughty boy bottom is almost more than I can endure if he expects me to remain coherent.

“Someone has taught you not to wriggle or cry, boy. I'm not sure I like you being so stoic. How will I know if you've learned your lesson if you don't cry? Hmm?”

I'm not sure what to say or do, so I let go of a low moan. I want to make Papa happy, but I haven't had nearly enough spanks to make all of the bad boy go away.

Papa continues, popping my bottom with his firm hand over and over again. First on one cheek and then the other. Then he spanks between my cheeks. His hand hits over my hole and I feel my bottom heat with the pounding of his hand. I feel my erection fill with arousal as his fingers spank graze roughly over my hole and near my balls, time and again, and again and again and again _and again and, pant, again_. Such a good Papa. He knows what I need to let go of all my naughty thoughts, all my bad manners.

As careful as I am, I can still feel myself squirming. It hurts now that I'm hot and tender all over. It hurts and he keeps doing it. I want to squirm away, but I want to make Papa proud too. It's so hard to make myself stay still, to feel his hard hand pounding on my swollen bottom, granting me no quarter or solace.

My Papa is so good to me. He knows I don't deserve leniency. It is right and proper for him to spank me like this. To prove my place to me, to show me how good I can be for him, accepting everything he needs me to receive at his hand.

My disobedient dick is so hard I'm worried it might explode without my permission, without Papa's permission, I mean.  Papa's legs are spread so wide now that there is no place for me to grind against, no friction to ease my leaking erection. I can feel Papa's penis against my side, through the soft, roughness of his corduroy trousers. It's not hard yet, but it's not soft either. One of his hands is holding me roughly down by my neck. The other hand continues it's assault upon my poor, wicked bottom. The heat has risen to a burning and my squirm is barely under my control. I can feel my tears welling up behind my eyes and my nose. The pressure of my tears is building and building as the pleasure dissipates and the pain slowly but steadily takes center stage.

“You have been such a bad boy for your Papa.” Papa is harsh both in sound and the movement of his hand upon my burning flesh. “You have done terrible things that you deserve to be punished for over and over again. You have gone against me and you have done things you know were wrong. You need to be punished repeatedly until all of the badness is gone. This isn't enough. You need punishing today and then you need it again tomorrow, and again the day after that. You need to be punished everyday until you bottom is always red and swollen and never has a chance to cool down. Would you like that boy? Would you like to be punished every single day until all the bad is gone and only Papa's good boy remains?”

I dont' know what to say but I'm whimpering now, struggling to hold back my tears.

Papa looks down at me, letting up for the moment. “Are you depriving me of your tears?” He asks, voice filled with incredulity.

He's angry and rough. He stops spanking me and hauls me upright, then shoves me down onto my knees. “Adrian! Pay attention.”

I do my best to focus on his face, his eyes, listening to his voice, allowing it to supersede everything else. “Yes Papa” I manage, voice fuzzy.

“I wasn't clear before boy, so I want to make certain you understand me now, okay?”

“Okay.” My lips are swollen from biting them so I wouldn't cry out. I'm almost swaying on my knees.

“Your tears belong to me boy. Just like your come; just like your swollen bottom. When I spank you I want you to cry. I will spank you until you cry. I want to see your tears. Good boys give their Papa's their tears and their cum. Do you understand me son? You give me all your tears. I should punish you for holding them back from me.”

“I'm sorry Papa.” I'm quivering. I can feel the tears which have finally broken lose and are running down my face. “I'm sorry Papa. I was trying to be a big boy and not cry.”

Papa snorts and his eyes flash. He rubs his palm over my hair and then leans down to kiss it. “There is nothing I enjoy more than a bad boy's earnest tears.”

He stands up. I'm nervous as he unbuckles his belt, but relieved when he leaves it in his belt loops. He unzips and drops his trousers then sits down. His slacks are pooling at his feet. He lets his knees fall open.

With his hand on the back of my neck he pulls me forward, pressing my face into his old-fashioned buttoned-up boxer shorts. I take a deep breath and allow myself to go slack so he can maneuver me as he likes.

“I need you to cry now son. I need you to cry your tears into Papa's soft undershorts. If you can't cry now then I will use my belt on you until you can. Do you understand son? Can you cry for me right now or do you need my help? I'm a good Papa and good Papa's help their boys to cry when they need it. I would be very happy to help you cry right now if you can't do it by yourself.”

My bottom is burning with heat, I can feel the overbearing warmth with every move of my legs and torso. My erection is burning with a different, but similar kind of heat. I don't' know if Papa wants me to rub against his cock while I cry, or just let the soft fabric of his shorts soak up my tears.

“I don't' understand Papa.” I manage to choke out. His hand is still on the back of my neck, pressing my face deeper into the musk of his crotch. He's rubbing my back and my shoulders are beginning to shake as the fear of disappointing him combines with the pain pulsing from my heated bottom into an irresistible pressure. The tears are welling up, spilling from my eyes and sobs are taking over, wracking my shoulders, making my breath stutter out in deep hiccups and shallow gasps.

I sob my apologies to him as I bury my face in his heated crotch, rubbing my face against the fabric of his shorts, nosing over his penis which is rigid under my cheeks and mouth. I kiss him through the boxers, begging him not to leave me, begging him to let me taste him, lick him and show him how very good I can be for my Papa.

He strokes his hand through my hair, pats my back, tells me everything will be okay. Slowly my tears dry up as his boxers become soaked with the evidence of my repentance. My butt is still swollen and tender but the heat has receded to a slow burn. My penis is still hard and aching. Papa's hand on my head and neck both comforts and inflames.

“There boy. Feeling better now?”

I nod and rub my face over Papa's erection in agreement.

“You gave me so many nice tears. Such a good boy, making Papa so proud.”

I let out a deep, humming sigh.

“Adrian dear. Now that you've been so good for Papa, I give you permission to touch yourself.” He uses his hand to push my face firmly into his crotch, sodden from my recent tears. “Stay like this, with your face right here, and rub yourself until you cum. Do it quickly boy. You need to get to bed early. You still have school in the morning.”

I choke briefly as my brain nearly breaks in half thinking of school and my adult responsibilities while I'm so deep in a scene. My hand on my dick goes faster as the little boy I long to be and the adult man I have to be battle over my orgasm. I'm not sure what to make of it, but I come faster than I have, well, since the last time Peter let me come for him. The release feels good, almost as good as crying in Papa's crotch made me feel. Almost as good as his harsh hand on my naughty bottom made me feel.

As I'm coming down from everything Papa is manhandling me, removing my new underwear and placing them in his pocket. He pats my head and sends me off to the shower with instructions to come back clean, dry and in my pajamas. Papa promises to tuck me in before leaving.

===

Peter sends the prey off to clean himself thoroughly. He tidies up a bit, being certain not to leave anything behind.

Taking his phone from his pocket he prepares a text message.

**Nothing is as arousing as the tears of my enemies. I'll be back soon and I have a very pressing need.**

A reply comes quickly. **We're waiting for you.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um...   
> comments, critiques, a pox upon my house? Statistics show someone's reading. 
> 
> Anthing. 
> 
> Beuller . . .
> 
> Next update will be a few days in coming, by next Monday if not sooner.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the best. I needed to know that folks were reading and you shared your comments very generously. So many thanks to everyone who was kind enough to comment. 
> 
> I've edited this some, but it might need more editing. If you find any glaring mistakes please share it in a comment and I will fix it ASAP.

Peter enters the door of his apartment whistling. He's still dressed like a demented fifties-TV-dad. “Bo-oys, I'm ho-ome.” He sings into the room. Derek, who is near the door, looks at him and frowns.

“Derek, such a good boy, eagerly awaiting my arrival. On your knees now, dear. Papa Peter has a chore for you.” Peter begins loosening his belt.

Derek stands near the couch. He must have been sitting down, but then jumped up when the door opened. He undoubtedly knew it had been Peter, but jumped up anyway. His wolf is on alert.

Derek looks at Peter.

Peter looks at Derek.

“Not even in your darkest fantasies Peter. Good God, could you get any creepier?” Derek says with a frown.

Peter pouts prettily. “Now, now nephew. I was promised prompt compensation if I kept myself from choking that insufferable man to death. Or maybe just breaking his neck. He is still alive and breathing, so payment is due!”

“Well, with Stiles out of commission you'll just have to wait on your payment. There is no way I'm sucking your dick.”

“But Der-ek.” Peter whines. “I've been so good and I'm so hard right now. I have my enemy's tears all over my boxers. You have got to smell them. They are an elixir!” Peter works on his belt again.

“Not even if there was a zombie apocalypse.” Derek is sniffing the air. “Ugh! I can tell by the smell that you have the newest DNA sample. I don't see how you can stand the scent of him.”

Peter frowns and pulls Mr. Harris's cum-coated underwear from his pocket. “It's sour isn't it? If Stiles hadn't suggested giving him a handjob before every rendezvous with The Prey I'm not sure how I would stand it either.”

Derek chokes. “You give Stiles a handjob before _every_ date with Mr. Harris?”

“Yes dear nephew. Stiles is a bright boy.” Stiles grins from his place on the couch and nods his agreement. “He suggested I give him a handjob before my first date with The Prey and I found it an effective way of controlling my wolf. I fingered Stiles' ass throughly with this hand.” Peter holds up one of his hands and sniffs it like a wine connoisseur smelling a particularly fragrant vintage. “Then I jacked him with this hand.” Peter holds up the other hand and gives it a breathy sniff. “Then I rubbed his ejaculate into both of my hands and allowed it to set for several minutes while he recovered.” Peter rubs his hands together suggestively and takes a deep whiff of both.

Stiles' face is smug.

Derek shakes his head.

“What?” Peter asks. “I rinsed my hands afterwards. Ordinary humans wouldn't have noticed, but it allowed me to coat The Prey's neck and face with Stiles' scent. I even managed to maintain an erection. I was quite proud of myself nephew. I doubt you would be up to my performance under similarly trying circumstances.”

Derek winces at the thought. He sniffs the air again. “Get rid of your DNA sample. That stuff is just rank.”

Peter agrees with a touch of melancholy. “It really is.”

Stiles tries to rise from the couch. “I'll bag it and tag it. Combined with the other undies, this should be enough evidence.”

“Nothing doing. Sit back down.” Derek insists.

Stiles complies because getting up is just too much of a challenge under the circumstances. His face is swollen, his lips are cut, and abrasions decorate his face like so much Christmas confetti. “The pain killers do make it hard to get up and get around.” Stiles concedes.

Derek wanders off to get a plastic zipper bag from the kitchen to store the underwear in.

Peter turns his attention to Stiles. “Why are you here, young man?” Peter questions, playing up the fatherly tone of voice and mannerisms. “You should be home in bed, recuperating.”

“Bite me old man.” Stiles says, not without affection, as he moves around, trying to get comfortable. Most of the damage is to his face, and he's hoping it won't look as bad once the swelling diminishes.

“Now, now Stiles. Is that anyway to talk to the vehicle of your revenge?”

Stiles snorts. “I'm not the one who's so hopped up on vengeance, Peter. That's your department.”

Peter hums. “So it is.”

Relenting, Stiles pats the cushion next to him. “Come sit and tell me all about it.”

This is Peter's favorite part of the night, telling Stiles everything that had happened. Usually he can get Stiles to give him a blow job during story time but with the current ragged condition of Stiles' mouth, that particular scenario doesn't seem very likely.

Peter sits and Stiles scoots up close to him, curling under his arm and leaning against Peter's chest.

“Did he like your fifties Dad ensemble?” Stiles asks. The outfit was Stiles idea and it's gratifying to know how it worked.

“It was a big hit.” Peter confirms. “I thought he might bow down right there at the doorway and lick my shoes. I expect it was a long time fantasy come to life. The poor boy. He really has suffered over his predilections.”

“How so?” Stiles asks.

Peter is thoughtful for a moment, but then continues. “Wanting to play daddy games is nothing to be ashamed of. But it's nothing so simple for The Prey. He's covered it over with so much guilt and shame and it makes him far more vulnerable than he need be. I think the shame is as much of a kink as the daddy play, at least for him.”

Stiles listens attentively, considers, then answers. “Everything in his life is pretty messed up. I mean, look what happened in school today. He completely ignored what was happening to me, and this is probably just the tip of the iceberg. I suspect his problems go a lot deeper that we can see on the surface.”

“Yes, that's true.”

“Then if everything in his life is so messed up, of course his kinks are messed up too. Not that daddy games are messed up by themselves, but just his guilt and shame and that weird sadistic streak of his, that's the messed up part. You think he likes to feel the shame, that it's part of what gets him off. I disagree. I think he's constantly covered in shame and the only time he gets to let it go is when a daddy disciplines it out of him.”

“Hmm. That would imply he has a conscience and that he can actually feel appropriate shame for his wrong doings. I'm not certain he does. Today he didn't show the slightest bit of remorse for what he allowed to happen to you. He was more worried over disappointing me last week.”

Stiles looks over at Derek who enters the living room. He catches Derek's eye. “Derek was awfully good last week, posing as the purse thief.”

Derek grins and if Stiles isn't mistaken, there's a small hint of a blush over his sharp cheekbones, right around his ears.

Peter pats Stiles on the knee. “He was, wasn't he? Have we rewarded him yet?”

Stiles licks his admittedly swollen lips. “Nope.” He says, popping the _P_ sound.

“We should find a way to reward him shouldn't we Stiles, dear?”

“Oooh yeah.” Stiles agrees, casting a lecherous grin in Derek's direction.

Derek hands the plastic bag to Peter, who promptly fills it with his plunder, and zips it closed. Peter hands it back to Derek. “I might be interested too.” Derek admits. He has an orange colored beverage in his hand, which he sets on the table near Peter. “Under different circumstances. When I look at you though—Stiles, you ping my radar as wounded—something about your scent. There is no way I'm getting it up for you like this.”

Stiles has been taking lessons from Peter, so he manages a pretty pout, even with his rough and puffy mouth.

Privately Peter feels that the ragged condition of Stiles' mouth makes his pout even more effective. He'd never tell Stiles though. The boy has enough leverage over Peter as it is. Over Derek too it seems.

Peter takes the orange beverage and has a long swallow. “Perfect dear nephew. Tang and vodka, the beverage of Russian astronauts.”

Stiles and Derek both make faces. Derek says, “I still don't see how you can drink that stuff. It's awful. All those chemicals and the alcohol on top of it. It certainly can't be good for you.”

Stiles swipes the glass and takes a tiny sip before making a sour face.

Peter smiles. “You forget boys. I'm from a certain generation for whom Tang tastes of hope and human ingenuity. Everyone drank Tang and vodka when I was a boy. It was considered quite _avant garde_.”

Derek and Stiles share a look.

“How do you know when to believe him and when he's pulling your leg?” Stiles asks Derek, who shrugs in response.

“All right then.” Stiles says. “I believe it was story time?”

“Indeed.” Peter says and then tells the entire story of his night with Mr. Harris with only a modicum of embellishments and only where they were absolutely warranted.

Derek settles himself on the arm of the couch and tucks his bare feet companionably under Stiles' thigh. Stiles pats Derek's leg with affection and then leans back to hear the story.

Peter's a good storyteller with plenty of hand gestures and different voices when necessary, to add to the drama of the presentation. Derek and Stiles ooh and ahh and grunt and gasp to show they're listening. Peter's certain that some of it their response is contrived, but he continues despite it because he knows just how good a storyteller he is.

Finally at the end of his tale his erection has blossomed into impressive rigidity and his eyes are sparkling with lust and the thrill of the chase.

“I'm not sure I can last much longer.” Peter informs the other guys. “I can manage one more date with The Prey, but whatever endgame we plan, it has to reach fruition on Thursday night.”

Stiles nods. “I think we can do that. We'll have to work fast, get things in order for Thursday.” Stiles turns to Peter. “Can you tell him to meet you here? Or pick him up at his place and bring him back here. We need to be able to control the environment to get everything finished up nice and tidy like.”

Peter agrees. “I'll text him in the morning, or better yet, later tonight. He'll be tickled pink to visit his Papa's home. Maybe I can get him to cry again. That was almost more fun than hearing the others beg for their lives. Who knew the power of tears?”

Derek and Stiles are looking at Peter in disbelief.

“What? It's not like neither of you have ever wanted to spank Mr. Harris until he cries.” Peter's voice drops to a low growl. “And then lick the tears from his face as you fuck him into the mattress.”

“Nope. I can honestly say, it never even crossed my mind.” Stiles says dryly and with a fierce shake of his head.

“I was wrong, Peter.” Derek says. “You can get creepier.”

===

Later that night all three men have made their way into the bedroom. Stiles is laying naked, on his back on the large bed, facial swelling somewhat diminished and legs spread wide. Peter is bent down between his legs, mouth full of Stiles' leaking erection. Derek is behind Peter, pounding into him with vigor and grace.

“I promised we'd give you plenty of motivation to keep him alive Peter and I meant it!” Derek says, punctuating every word with a powerful thrust.

Stiles is babbling, lost in the pleasure of Peter's mouth on his dick and the vision of Derek plowing his uncle to the pinnacle of release.

Peter is caught between his favorite rock and hard place, blissed out, unable to think beyond the cock in his ass and dick in his throat. Sometimes when one least expects it, life gives you everything you ever dreamed of. Other times it gives you a surly nephew with a big dick and a smart-aleck teen with a beautiful mouth and penchant for threesomes. On his current road to revenge, Peter is happy to take what he can get.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the first part of this chapter done so I'm publishing it now. There will be another part, in a new chapter and it will be up in a couple of days. 
> 
> Meanwhile, I am planning on the last chapter of this fic to include a fun sex scene between our stalwart lovers--Derek, Stiles and our beloved Peter. If you have any requests or suggestions for their big sextravaganza, please share it in a comment. I have some ideas, but I'm particularly interested in what you, the reader, would like to see our 3 heros get up to in the bedroom (or the balcony, or Stiles' jeep, or wherever). Kinky and fetish-filled, or married-person missionary, I'm open to suggestions.

Stiles looks at his Science Teacher who is snoring in one of his boyfriends' bed. Yup, you read that right, _plural_ , as in more than one boyfriend, a fact that Stiles still gloats over with the reverence due to a mint in the box _[2008 Comic Con Ninja Pony](http://www.strawberryreef.com/images/Ponies/C/ComicConNinja_400_L_Hasbro.jpg), _ the black one, with the fuchsia mane and tail 'cause that thing is _sweet_! Stiles covets it with passion he used to reserve for coveting social orgasms, but's he's got an abundance of those now so there's plenty of covetousness leftover for ponies. When Stiles gets his Ninja pony, and rest assured, one day he _will_ own it, he intends to place it in the center of his [pony shrine ](http://www.poniloader.com/submissions/37/%7B191B2035-594A-BA71-D326-85DBE86EAEC8%7D-my-pony-shrine-th.jpg)on a special display shelf that may or may not have been a glass cake stand he found on sale at Walmart. In addition it may or may not have glitter glued to it. And sequins. And rick-rack.

(What? So Stiles is a [_brony_](http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Brony)  in good standing and has, along with Scott, collected _My Little Ponies_ since they were in grade school. Hey! Don't laugh. Some of those things are worth big bucks now. But don't tell Allison, 'cause Scott is kinda ashamed of it now. But Isaac knows and he's cool with it, 'cause back when his mom was still alive, he and his brother Camden were _bronies_ themselves. Isaac even has a white [G3 Princess Celestia ](http://i.ebayimg.com/t/My-Little-Pony-Princess-Celestia-TALKS-and-Wings-Light-Up-Ships-WorldWide-/00/s/OTAwWDkwMA==/z/8xwAAOxyyjpRyPJm/%24T2eC16JHJHEFFl2LdFjsBRyPJlw8Zg~~60_57.JPG)that is MIB and Stiles should so get one of those while they're still reasonably priced because those babies are going up! in value. And he still has college to save for and his _Pokemon_ cards are only going to take him so far.)

So anyway, yeah, _Boyfriends,_ with the _s_ at the end, cause Stiles attracts creepy older werewolf guys like a boss!  What? It's a legitimate skill set. Do not mock the old-guy, creepy, werewolf boyfriends because they give head like firemen give, um, water... to fires. Or something like that. Anyway, Stiles' boyfriends rock because they give him lots of social orgasms and Stiles is a teenage boy and Woo Hoo! Free Orgasms! With other live human beings or wolves or something. And Stiles gets them way more often than Scott ever did with Allison, and plus without the touchy-feely sharing of our feelings and emotions and heart-swelling (dick-shrinking) conversations upon the rightness and goodness of our relationship. They just get to fuck and pant and cum, and when they're done, they get to do it all over again. And _then_ they get to share pizza _and_ cookies, in the bed, with an entire gallon of milk and all the Dr. Pepper you can drink before passing out in exhaustion. So all is right in the world of Stiles Stilinski. Except his science teacher, who is a douche bag of mammoth proportions, and who is asleep in his boyfriend's bed. And said science teacher is snoring. Plus he's wearing short-shorts and a striped T-shirt... and white socks... and loafers... and... Holy Fuck! Is that a beany hat? It just might be. There seems to be a propeller at the top of it. Stiles goes for his camera phone.

“Ah, ah, aahhh.” Peter warns from the corner chair in the bedroom. “Derek will be the only one taking photographs, and only when our guest has returned to the land of the living.”

“Aww.” Stiles whines. “Just one little pic, of the hat. I just want a picture of the hat for posterity, and possibly Facebook. But just the one. I promise I won't take any of his ass or his dick or anything. Just the hat and the propeller. Cause Dude! That is a propeller! On his _hat_!”

Peter is shaking his head and tisking his tongue. Stiles can think of way more important things Peter should be doing with that tongue of his. Way more important and way more fun and way more involving Stiles' dick and a severe lack of pants. Yup, that is one talented werewolf tongue and it clearly needs to be put to better use than scolding Stiles for taking a picture of his science teacher's funny propeller hat. Stiles' eyes close part way and his nostrils flare a little bit as he considers Peter's tongue—it's myriad uses and talents. A little bit of drool might dribble down his chin.

“No Stiles. Not even one. Be patient my love. Derek will be here soon and he'll do everything we need.” Peter pauses, cocking his head to listen more carefully to sounds that Stiles can't even imagine being able to hear. “Wait dear. I believe that's him now.”

Stiles puts his hands into his pockets and bounces on his feet. He sings softly to himself, a made-up song about Peter's tongue and how he applies it to Stiles' dick and how Stiles is so happy that he has to sing about it. It's a catchy tune. Stiles' may make a Youtube video of it one day. You know, just for funzies and because Peter's tongue is totally worthy of at least one Youtube video and perhaps multiple videos, especially if Stiles can convince him to get that tongue piercing. Oh baby! Peter with a tongue piercing. Stiles almost comes in his jeans, because WOW! Peter! With a Tongue Piercing! Oh, and maybe nipple piercings too. Yuppers, that is definitely drool he feels on his chin. Stiles takes a moment and subtly wipes the drool away. He's pretty sure Peter notices anyway. Not much gets by Peter.

Stiles considers for a moment that his Adderall may be wearing off by this time of night, but nah! NO ¡ _problemo_! He is totally up to the challenge. And Oh! Look there, Peter is licking his lips. With his TONGUE! That totally needs a piercing, as soon as they can get to the piercing parlor. Stiles is even willing to pay for it himself. It's an investment in future blowjobs.

Peter, who might be telepathic, clears his throat. “Stiles, I am not getting a tongue piercing. Not even if you pay for it yourself.” Then Peter gestures with his hand, shooing Stiles off to open the apartment door for Derek.

Stiles frowns at Peter and turns to leave the bedroom. Sometimes Peter is just an ass. A sexy, talented, extremely good in the sack ass, but still, an ass.

Stiles lets Derek into the apartment and fills him in on the status of Mr. Harris. Derek listens and nods and then leans in close to Stiles and sniffs his neck.

“Why do you smell so turned on!” Derek asks, nose pressed close to junction of Stiles' shoulder and neck. “Has Peter been teasing you?”

Stiles looks embarrassed, “No man. Peter's just sitting in the bedroom, supervising Mr. Harris. I'm turned on because I'm 17 and if I'm breathing my dick is hard, or can be within moments, should the need arise.” Stiles' waggles his eyebrows up and down.

Derek smirks. “Did the need arise? Is that the problem?”

Stiles blushes. “No need, at least not quite yet. We're—um—waiting, you know, for Harris to wake up, so we can do the pics.”

Derek and Stiles walk back into the bedroom.

“How did you get him to pass out?” Derek asks Peter as he looks over Mr. Harris.

Peter looks especially pleased with himself. He crosses one leg over the other and folds his hands primly in his lap. “I made dinner for us. Macaroni and cheese with hot dogs and buttered corn and Tang. He was so happy, you should have seen him.” Peter grins to himself, looking like a cat whose whiskers are still full of cream. “Then I slipped a mickey in his Tang. It was the perfect beverage choice for the occasion. It tastes like stability and childhood innocence and the flavor is so strong that it can cover up anything, even chloral hydrate.”

Derek is nodding and examining their prisoner. “Is he wearing a hat? With a propeller on it?”

Peter is nodding and smirking and hugging himself in pleasure. “Yes. Yes it is. Do you like it? I ordered two. One for The Prey, and one for us to play with should we ever be so inspired to do so. I gave it to him as a gift tonight, during supper.” Peter glances fondly at the hat perched upon the sleeping man's head. “He was so pleased. He really is terribly sweet when he wants to be. I think I'll miss him when we're done with him.” Peter lets go of a heavy sigh.

Derek and Stiles look at one another and then they both shrug. Peter is an odd fish. They both know it and they love him anyway.

===

The first thing I notice is that there are two songs playing on a loop, [_Father Figure_ ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_9hfHvQSNo)by George Michael and [_Hungry Like the Wolf_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oOg5VxrRTi0)by Duran Duran. I listen to them both play through a couple of times before I realize that things are not all as they should be.

First off, I'm not in my own bed because the one I _am_ in has a much better mattress than my own. I'm not sure who's bed it is. It's _not_ one with which I am familiar. Secondly, my head hurts and my mouth is dry and tastes of Tang and betrayal. Not a pleasant combination by any means. Lastly, I'm pretty sure that someone is sucking my dick and doing so with a great deal of enthusiasm and skill. Huh. That's a new one.

I squint my eyes open a little bit and look around the room. There is some weird stuff to see, so I close my eyes quickly and relax back into the mattress and the blowjob. Mmm, it's a really nice blowjob, with lots of tongue and suction like a hoover vacuum.

It occurs to me that I had a date tonight with my Papa Peter and that the last thing I can remember is opening the gift he has purchased for me. A hat, with a propeller on it. Just like the kind little kids wear in cartoons from the 50's and 60's. I sigh happily. It's a very nice hat. I wonder vaguely if Peter will let me keep it or if he'll make me come on it and keep it for himself. Then I wonder if Peter is the one one sucking my dick. If so, he is certainly gifted in that department. I'm unable to hold back a moan of pleasure.

“He's coming to.” I hear a masculine voice say into the room. It makes me blink my eyes open and closed in an effort to clear my vision.

When I'm able to see clearly I look around me and see my Papa right away. He is smiling at me with so much affection in his eyes. “Hello son. Good morning. Did you have a nice nap?”

I nod sleepily and then moan again from the pleasure of the mouth on my dick. I try to look down to see who is doing it, but find I'm not quite up to that yet.

I can hear Papa talking to me in a soothing voice so I relax and look around the room. “Such a sweet, good boy, Adrian. Relax son. Everything is fine. Give yourself a little time to wake up properly. You fell asleep, probably from all the carbs in the meal you ate. But it's still early, not past 10pm. We still have plenty of time to play when you wake up. So take your time and let yourself come to naturally. I've enjoyed watching you boy. You're quite innocent when you sleep.”

I grin, yawn and nod, then snuggle down into the mattress and have a look around the room. Directly across from the bed a picture is hanging. I'm not certain, but I think it's the one he was examining at the the coffee shop, Allure. It's such a common picture, almost vulgar, I can't imagine why Papa liked it enough to buy it. I allow my eyes to drift over the scene. It pictures the forest, with dappled patches of sunlight ghosting between tree limbs and settling onto the forest floor. Something I hadn't noticed before, the forest is teeming with life. There are birds and bunnies and toadstools and squirrels, deer, raccoons and even an opossum hanging by it's tail from a tree. The boy and the dog are both smiling. Only, that's not a dog is it? That is a wolf. And there's not just one wolf, there are two. Huh, maybe I missed it in the coffee shop.

“There are two wolves.” I mumble as I gaze up at the painting, wondering why it captured my Papa's imagination enough to prompt him to buy it.

“Oh, yes. There are. How observant of you boy. Good eyes young man.”

I smile and preen from my lazy place on the bed. Whoever is sucking my dick nibbles a little too hard and I squeak.

“Adrian, you are exactly right. There are two wolves now. The original work had only one but I persuaded the artist to add a second wolf, and if you'll look off to the upper right corner there's just the hint of an entire pack of wolves. Can you see them boy?”

I look to the spot he indicates and see that he is correct. “You made the artist add more wolves?” I ask, mouth and mind still fuzzy, but clearing.

“Indeed I did. I simply offered him 20% over his asking price and he touched it up that very day. It turned out quite good. Don't you agree?”

I nod automatically. It still looks common to me, but we all have our tastes.

Next to Daddy's proletarian picture is a bulletin board. My eyes coast over it and then back again. Baggies, containing bunched up fabric, are pinned to the board with bright purple tacks. I take a closer look at the baggies. One of them has striped fabric in it. Another has navy fabric with red arrows. I blink. I blink again, trying to focus. I think those are my underpants. The ones Papa took from me. The ones he made me wear all day and then cum in before giving them back to him. The one's that are now hanging in neatly labeled zipper bags from  his bulletin board. That is kind of creepy. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

“Papa.” I say, voice a little quavery. “Why are my underpants in baggies on your bulletin board?”

“Oh Adrian, you are so clever.” Papa says with pride in his voice. “And do you see there's a pair of mine too. The ones you cried in on Monday. I had to preserve them, they were just so precious to me.”

About then it occurs to me that someone who I don't know is still sucking on my cock and is showing no signs of letting up.

I lean up to see who it is. My mouth falls open, my eyes open wide and a surge of panic traces it's way quickly through my spine. A series of flashing clicks go off to my left. Oh Fuck!

Stiles Stilinski is sucking my cock and if I'm not mistaken someone has just taken multiple photographs of it. Fuck!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene grows with the telling of it. Next update on Monday. Enjoy.

Peter is pleased. He watches his sweet boy perform with perfect grace. “Turn to the camera now Stiles, so your bruises are visible. They'll make the final prints much more compelling.”

Stiles does so instantly.

Peter corrects him, “Perhaps a little less triumph in your face dear. You're not supposed to be enjoying yourself. You need to look more traumatized.”

Stiles smirks briefly, then does his best to remove the sparkle from his eyes and the smile from his very active mouth. He's frighteningly effective.

“Good boy.” Peter praises. “You appear perfectly coerced.”

Stiles snorts in amusement.

===

I hear more camera clicks as a shadow of the horror I'm about to face whispers into my conscious mind. I tell myself no, it can't be like this. It's not what it seems. I'm still fuzzy-headed and my mind simply isn't capable of understanding the big picture yet. It couldn't possibly be as terrifying as it appears.

Maybe Papa has two boys, me and, unfortunately, my student, Stiles. From the way they talk, it seems as if Papa has had Stiles for quite some time. Maybe Papa likes Stiles more than me. Maybe he is a better boy. He is younger than me by far. Maybe Papa only likes boys who are still young and he won't want me because I'm so much older. Maybe Papa wants both of us and he wants his boys to play together, so he can watch. Maybe he'll keep me if I agree to play with his other boy.

But his other boy is Stiles Stilinski who is perhaps the most insufferably barbaric child I have ever encountered. Why would Papa want me to play with such an inadequate example of humanity? Perhaps Stiles has hidden talents, which the current status of my erection would imply.

“Papa?” My voice is quavering. “What are you doing, sir?”

“Relax boy. Everything is fine. We're almost done. Turn to smile at Derek, would you. I need you  to look like you're enjoying yourself.”

Obediently I turn to look at the photographer. He looks familiar. I do my best to smile.

As the camera goes off repeatedly my adrenaline begins to kick in. It occurs to me that I have allowed myself to be photographed in a sex act with a student, while I wear a hat with a propeller on it. Oh dear.

The adrenaline forces the lassitude from my limbs.

I shove away quickly from Stiles and pull up my shorts. I scramble back for one of the pillows on the bed and use it to cover myself.

“Stop it! Stop it!” I say. “What do you think you're doing? Peter!” Peter gives me a lazy, almost languid grin. “Peter! What is going on here? You will tell me now!” I use my stern teacher voice to force him to comply. It works on everyone. My voice is one of my secret weapons. I've even used it on medical professionals and watched them capitulate instantly to my demands.

Only it doesn't seem to work on Peter, who continues to watch me with his bucolic expression.

Stiles scrabbles over to Peter and huddles near his leg. “Daddy, the mean man is scaring me.” Stiles whimpers into Peter's knee. Then the strangest thing happens. My Papa, _MY_ Papa, strokes his hand through Stiles Stilinski's hair, petting him gently. In the most reassuring tone my Papa says to another boy “It's okay baby boy. I won't let the mean man hurt you. Daddy is here for you dear.”

Why is Papa, no, why is _Peter_ letting Stiles call him Daddy? He never let _me_ call him Daddy. He told me I could only call him Papa. And Daddy is way better than Papa. Everyone knows that. My face is red. My hands are clenched. My mouth is open, but closing fast with an audible pop!

===

Peter has become so mild that Derek is feeling a little worried. He's put down the camera, confident that there are enough shots to fulfill their purpose. He removes the SD card from the camera and uploads it to a nearby laptop. He fiddles with it so the pictures will display in a loop, one after the other, pausing briefly before scrolling to the next. Derek sets the laptop on the desk so it's visible to the rest of the room.

Then Derek makes his way over to Peter and Stiles where he smoothly lowers himself to the floor next to Stiles. He curls his hand around Peter's second leg possessively and gives it a brief nuzzle with his face.

“Two good boys.” Peter whispers, with genuine pride. “Daddy's two good boys.”

Derek rubs his head against Peter's leg and gazes up at him, eyes filled with love and trust. Stiles glares at Mr. Harris and then looks up at Peter with a matching expression of unmitigated devotion.

Peter smiles down at his boys, takes a moment to pet his hands over their hair, and then looks over at The Prey, who is eying the door as if he's thinking of making a run for it. He cocks his head briefly then looks down at Derek.

“Derek dear,” Peter says quietly, with a quick tug to Derek's hair. “If you would be so kind, check the doors.”

Derek pauses briefly then nods and leaves the room.

Stiles splays himself at Peter's feet like an Egyptian slave in a Cecil B. Demille movie. He looks wanton, debauched. The bruises on his face are nearly healed and have turned a colorful purple and green. His lips are red and swollen from sucking Mr. Harris's dick. His hair stands on end where Peter has run his hands through it. He is wearing only a pair of designer undies that exhibit his cock and balls like the most delectable morsels at a Roman banquet. The Prey frowns and wonders if Stiles is wearing _his_ underwear. The underwear that Papa buys for _him_.

Stiles smiles serenely as Peter fingers his lips absently. Stiles opens his mouth obediently to allow Peter access to his tongue.

Peter looks at The Prey. “Now Adrian, I'm certain you're considering your chances of  making an escape and let me say, they're not good. My nephew is guarding the door and between he, Stiles and myself, I don't think you have much of a chance.”

The Prey frowns as he calculates the odds.

“Much like Stiles here didn’t' have much of a chance against two older and bigger boys on Monday. Hmm? Wouldn't you agree?”

The Prey's frown deepens.

“I believe you were there, weren't you?”

The Prey is wary, calculating. Peter runs his fingers over the bruises on Stiles' face. Outlining them with a careful finger, delineating the line between bruised flesh and clear skin.

“I understand it was quite painful.” Peter says as he gazes into Stiles' trusting eyes. Stiles nods his head in agreement.

“And what was it you did, while Stiles here was assaulted by the other boys? Hmm Adrian? What was it you did while Stiles beautiful face was bruised and battered and his oh-so-clever-mouth was beaten to a ragged pulp?”

The Prey's eyes are murky, apprehensive.

“What did you do boy? While Papa's favorite toy was nearly destroyed? You stood there didn't you? You watched as he was terrorized.” Peter is glaring at The Prey, eyes dark and predatory. “Did it make you hard _boy_? Did it make you want to shove your cock down his battered throat and see just how far he could take you before he gagged? Did you want to watch his pretty lips bleed while he sucked you off?”

The Prey is frozen, unmoving. Peter can smell the arousal wafting from him at the description of Monday's incident. Peter nods, gives The Prey a knowing smirk. “It makes you hot now, even thinking about it.”

The Prey wants to deny it, but he's afraid to move, afraid to draw too much attention to himself.

The door squeaks as Derek opens it and enters the room. He hands Peter a glass of Tang and vodka, then gracefully lowers himself to sit at Peter's feet. Peter takes a sip of his drink, then pats Derek absentmindedly.

Peter looks down at his boys and grins. “Now that Derek has returned, it's story time. Adrian, are you ready for Papa to tell you a story? I know my boys are ready. They love it when their Daddy tells them stories.” Peter gives them a fond smile. “Don't you boys?” Derek and Stiles both agree quickly.

“You always tell the best stories Daddy.” Stiles admits while looking directly at Mr. Harris, and then quickly looking down again. The picture of modest obeisance.

Peter stretches out his legs, spreading them as wide as the chair will allow. He arranges Stiles between his legs, where the boy rests his head on Peter's inner thigh. Derek curls up closer, resting one hand on Stiles and the other on Peter.

Peter begins. “Once upon a time there was a young man named Adrian. He was so sad and so lonely that when an evil huntswoman disguised as a pretty girl offered him a hint of domineering companionship, he jumped at the opportunity with barely a thought to the consequences. When the huntswoman asked the young and foolish man for help  with her evil endeavor he gladly supplied it, thinking only of the selfish fulfillment of his own vain desires. The stroking of his own, _ahem_ —ego.”

The Prey's eyes are growing wide with the genesis of understanding.

“About this time another man, this one named Peter, was celebrating with his daughter, pregnant wife and extended family. The birth of their second child was only a few weeks away and the little family was delirious with joy. The man's wife and daughter, plus all his extended family were in the house, joyfully planning for the impending birth.”

Derek's grip on Peter's leg has strengthened and his fingers are losing color due to the tightness of his grasp. Peter pets his hair, giving it gentle, soothing tugs. Stiles whimpers and buries his head in the comforting warmth of  Peter's crotch, as if to hide from the story yet to be told.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be 2 or 3 days. Remember, if you have anything you'd like to see our 3 heros get up to in the final scene of much sexiness, then do let me know in a comment. I'll accomodate what I can.

Peter droned on and on and on, elucidating his personal tragedy in excruciating detail, all the while with that foolish child's face buried in his crotch. The crotch that should have been mine, not Stiles Stilinski's. I listened, dumbstruck, to Peter's tale of woe, but I also envied Stiles for the right he had to seek solace from his daddy with such ease and intimacy. Why is it the universe is continually setting me up with potential father figures and then tearing them away from me with undeniable force? Why is it such a challenge for me to find a decent daddy and then keep him, for the rest of forever and ever, Amen?

As Peter drones on and on I realize he's talking about the Hale fire. That woman Kate must be the huntswoman in Peter's story. I gave her chemistry tips on the best way to create fire that kept burning and wouldn't go out with normal means. I gag as I realize Peter's family was in that fire.

For fuck's sake! He set me up!

He isn't Peter Wolfram at all. He claims that was his dead wife's maiden name. His real name is Peter Hale, and the reason that other man looks so familiar is because he's Derek Hale. They are only living survivors of the fire. Fuckity, fuck, fuck! I am so screwed. I don't know what he's going to do with me. It could be almost anything. From what I've seen of him so far, I am fucking terrified.

===

Peter pets Stiles' head over and over as he tells the terrible tale, angling his trouser-covered cock upwards now and then, to rub it casually over Stiles' face. He might do it to comfort Stiles who is whimpering, or it could be more to comfort himself as he reveals the tragic demise of his pregnant wife and young daughter.

The Prey has become completely silent, like a bunny facing a wolf, hoping that if he doesn't move the wolf won't see him, won't chase him down and tear out his throat, with it's teeth. Derek grinds his teeth as he holds onto Peter with both hands, barely contained grief and anger washing in mercurial waves over his reddened face.

Peter skewers The Prey with a piercing look. “Do you remember Adrian, the conversation we had that you were only to call me Papa Peter and never Daddy? Do you know why it was so important to me? Hmm?

The Prey nods his head that _yes_ , he does remember. Then shakes it quickly to answer the second part of Peter's question. “No, I don't know why?”

Peter's eyebrows knit together as he frowns. “No, you don't know, do you? Shall I enlighten you?”

The Prey can only nod, eyes wide, mouth a thin line. Maybe if he's cooperative they'll let him go. He can only hope.

Peter grimaces, suppressed memories traveling over his face with the sting of hindsight and regret. His voice is soft with remembered affection. “My daughter called me Daddy. That was her name for me. That was the last word she screamed, over and over again. Full of agony as she burned to death in the fire you helped to create. The fire that left my family dead by horrible means, and left me in a coma for 6 years. That is the reason I will never allow that word, _Daddy_ , to fall from your lips. You are not worthy of calling me the same name used by most beloved.”

The Prey looks pointedly at Stiles as Peter says the last part. Stiles is mouthing Peter's crotch and plaintively whimpering, “Daddy, it's too much. Daddy, don't tell it anymore. It's so sad Daddy. You lost your little girl. You lost your wife and your family. No Daddy, no more, no more.”

Peter offers an ambiguous shrug. “I've had to find a new child, haven't I Adrian? You would have made a good little boy too. A good little boy for Papa Peter to play with, but no. You had to go and ruin it by murdering my family first.”

The Prey's face is ashen. He looks sickened both by his own behavior, and by the situation in which he now finds himself. His voice is a dry croak when he speaks at last. “What is it you want from me Peter Hale? What would you have me do?”

This is the moment Peter has been waiting for. This is when he's able to aim his _coupe de grace_ and fell his enemy with a ruthless blow. “Originally I planned to kill you Adrian. I was simply going to lure you into a clandestine meeting in the woods, strangle you, and then savage your throat so it would appear you were attacked by a mountain lion.”

Adrian is shivering in fear. “N-n-no.” He stutters. “No, not that.”

Peter's expression is grim. “Yes, I'm afraid that was my plan. And you are utterly deserving of it, after what you did. It would only be the just and proper consequences of your behavior. _Wouldn't it boy_?” Peter's tone starts out mild enough but deepens to harsh growl at the end.

The Prey nods his head in defeat. “Yes Papa.” He says, head hanging down, unable to even look at Peter as the older man pets and comforts his new boys. His _proper_ boys.

Peter continues. “Ironically enough, it was Stiles who rose to defend you.” Peter smiles fondly down at Stiles who has unbuttoned and unzipped Peter's trousers and is now attempting to extract Peter's penis from within. He pauses to gaze up at Peter,eyes full of righteous devotion. Peter traces his fingers over Stiles' lips and slips two fingers into his warm and welcoming mouth.

The Prey watches, face a twisted dichotomy of envy, disbelief and lastly, a grudging respect.

Peter spreads his legs apart as widely as he can and gestures for Derek to join Stiles in intimate camaraderie. Derek moves slowly, but with agility. He presses his mouth over Stiles', holding Peter's fingers between them as their tongues join one another in a comforting kiss.

Peter's breath catches audibly in his throat. He turns to The Prey. “They're lovely together aren't they? I can hardly believe my luck that I'm able to claim both of them as my own.”

The Prey is silent for a beat and then manages to whisper. “Yes. They are so pretty.” The quiet longing in his voice echos into the room.

Peter pulls his erection from his trousers and offers it to his boys like a coveted gift. Stiles latches onto it immediately, licking from the base to the tip, swirling his tongue expertly and then dipping down again. Derek's dark glittering eyes focus on Peter momentarily. Peter, holding his penis at the base rubs it gently along Derek's lips, coating them with precome and insistence. Derek looks down, into Stiles blissful face, and opens his mouth obediently. He licks with strength and skill. Peter throws his head back as his two boys lick at his arousal with firm, slippery tongues. A deep guttural moan escapes his lips as his hands palm each boy's head and he thrusts between their mouths.

Peter turns to look at The Prey. “Do you see boy? Do you see how good it could have been if you hadn't insisted on betraying me?”

The Prey nods. He sees. He knows.

Peter takes a few moments for himself, reveling in the feel of Derek's and Stiles' mouths upon him, taking turns sucking him down their throats, releasing him and then sucking him down again. He's close, so very close.

“As I was saying.” Peter says as he forces himself to focus on The Prey instead of the warm, cooperative mouths converging on his cock. “It's only at Stiles' insistence that I am allowing you to live at all.” At the mention of his name Stiles sucks Peter's length down his throat and releases a gentle moan. Peter traces his finger around Stiles' full mouth as his eyes darken with lust.

“Tell Stiles thank-you Adrian” Peter commands.

The Prey blanches, then speaks. “Thank you Stiles.”

Stiles relinquishes his prize to Derek who swallows it down with aplomb. “You're welcome Mr. Harris.” Stiles says sweetly.

The Prey frowns, unsure if Stiles is being facetious or genuine.

Peter grimaces and tugs Derek's hair forcefully. “Do be careful of your teeth nephew.” His voice a low grumble.

Derek releases Peter's cock briefly. “Of course, Uncle.” He replies with a cheeky grin, before taking Peter's erection back into his mouth and milking it with his throat.

Peter sucks in a deep breath of air before continuing. “As I was saying. Since Stiles' refused to allow me to strangle you, I had to come up with another plan. I think you'll like this one too Adrian, I know Stiles approved it quite heartily."

Stiles, who is running his agile tongue over Derek's full throat pauses to nod vigorously at The Prey. Derek's hands come up to pinch at Stiles' nipples playfully. Stiles voice comes out in a breathy gust. “Oh yes.”


	11. Chapter 11

I watch the three of them, dancing an elegant ballet between themselves, in perfect rhythm with one another. I consider the isolation I endure night after night, and long for the sweet communion of their encounter.

I imagine myself in Stiles' place, wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of underwear, purchased for me by my Papa so he can watch me and know that I model them for him and his pleasure. I imagine sharing my Papa's cock with another boy. Submitting with so much elegance to a strong and handsome daddy. A powerful man, a worthy man, who can give me the control I crave. A man who can lead me, force me to take my place at his feet where I rightfully deserve to be.

I gaze at Peter, his deep blue eyes blown with lust, his palms full of the bowed heads of obedient boys. He's rutting forward with a pulsing rhythm forcing himself deep down Derek's throat. He sighs when his boys trade off; moans when the tempo changes, when the suction increases, when tongue and teeth are put to new effect. My mouth waters with a dark craving to be part of their family. A family I will never have.

My eyes fill with tears of heartache. Peter is rejecting me, has rejected me. I am alone again and it hurts. Oh, it hurts so deeply.

===

Peter eyes The Prey lazily and decides that he should, in fact, orgasm before finishing his story. He glances down at Derek, whose mouth is currently filled with Peter's erection. “Make me come.” Peter barks. “Now!”

Derek closes his eyes and sucks hard, he places a hand on Peter's balls and rolls them roughly, pressing a finger on his perineum and moving his mouth up and down briskly. Peter is easy to bring off with the correct stimulation. Not as easy as Stiles perhaps, but Peter's not a 17 year old boy either.

Stiles continues to lick and nibble Derek's neck and throat. Suddenly Peter has pulled out of Derek's mouth and strokes himself once, then twice, spurting his release over Derek's and Stiles' upturned faces. He sighs deeply and shivers as the last of his ejaculate spills onto Stiles' plump lips. A quick tongue shoots out of Stiles' mouth to lick up the pearly drop. Derek and Stiles move closer to one another, clever pink tongues licking each others faces clean of Peter's cum.

The Prey  cries out in disappointment.

Peter looks at him and scowls. “This is what you want, isn't it boy?” Peter demands, voice rough with his recent orgasm. “You want a brother and a daddy to call your own.”

The Prey nods, betrayal and longing glossing over his expression, before he looks down and covers his face with his hands.

“Yes.” The Prey whimpers, needy and resigned to his emptiness.

Peter becomes animated, pressing his boys apart from one another and standing up quickly. He tucks himself into his jeans and walks to The Prey with a smile and a bounce in his walk. “Then let me tell you Adrian, have I got a surprise for you!”

===

Peter is advancing towards me with an expression of absolute elation upon his face. My breathing ratchets up and I don't know what to do. Maybe try to crawl under the bed like a dog and hide there while he tries to pull me out. I could bite him when he reaches for me. That might work.

But I've taken too long thinking it over and he is upon me and hauling me up like I weigh less than a small bird. He marches me over to the bulletin board. He's holding my arm firmly, squeezing too tightly, making me whimper in fear and discomfort. He forces my face up close to the baggies, each of which appears to contain a pair of my underwear. Used underwear. I look at them and then over to Peter.

“Do you know what these are Adrian?” Peter asks, voice cheery, excited. Like he's showing off a favorite collection.

I nod my head slowly in response.

“What are they Adrian? Use your words.” Peter insists.

I try not to stutter, but my fear response is in full swing, so I'm not especially successful. “T-t-they're my underp-p-pants. T-t-the one's y-you gave me.”

Peter's hand tightens briefly. “That's right Adrian. They are. And what are they covered in? Hmm, do you remember?”

I blush down to the roots of my hair. Hanging my head I manage to whimper, “My cum.”

Peter smiles brilliantly. “Yes, your cum. But even more importantly, your DNA.”

I look at him, confused. Why would my DNA be important to Peter?

“Do you know who else's DNA is on them? Do you know who wore them before I gave them to you? Did you ever wonder why I wanted you to wear them all day, instead of putting them on after your shower?”

Well of course I did wonder why he wanted me to wear them all day. I just assumed he had a scent kink. He _was_ always sniffing me after all. The thought of someone else wearing my underwear before me is giving me a stomach ache. Well, actually, I already have a stomach ache. Thinking of myself wearing used underwear is making it worse. Much, much worse. Ugh!

Peter continues without waiting for my answer. “I picked them out specifically for Stiles. Did you know he and you have the same sized butt? I know, I found it surprising too. I had him model several types before we settled on this one.” Peter turns to Stiles. “Stand up Stiles, so The Prey can see how pretty you look..”

I wince at being referred to as prey. I gotta say, I'm feeling pretty terrified right about now.

Stiles rises gracefully from his knees and preens as he shows off how well my underwear fit him. Well, they're not mine. They never were. But for a couple of weeks I thought they were, and I was so very happy too. Now I look at Stiles in the underwear that should be mine. They fit him perfectly, making his ass look plump instead of skinny and cupping his package like a lover holding him up carefully to take a delicate bite. I'd like to bite him. Right on his skinny underage ass!

And then the information about the DNA clicks into place. Stiles' underage, student DNA, mixed with my adult, teacher DNA, on his underwear. Oh FUCK! If the courts got a hold of that my career and my life will be ruined.

Peter watches my face and seems to understand when the realization blooms within my mind. “Aha. I see you understand.” His eyes flash with merriment.

I straighten up completely, standing tall to meet my defeat with as much courage as I can muster. Reaching up, I pull the propeller hat from my head and look down at Peter, squarely in the eye.

“What is it you want from me Peter? You've got pictures. You've got DNA. I'm certain you and your nephew could be credible witnesses. You've got me over a barrel, exactly where you want me. Now what do you want?”

===

“So who was the guy who let us in?” Xander asks from his place on the floor, resting between Spike's legs. Spike sits in a comfortable easy chair, relaxed and patient.

Spike takes a sip of his Tang and vodka and smacks his lips with pleasure. “Haven't had one of these in decades.” He muses. “They used to be quite posh ya' know. Russian Astronaut, they were called, sometimes Cosmonaut. Must be Peter who drinks 'em cause I know that muscle man doesn't. His muscles are too pretty to make room for Tang.”

“The muscle man, Spike, who was he?” Xander asks again.

“Ah, that would be Derek, Peter's nephew. Haven't seen 'im since 'e was a pup. All grown up now isn't he?”

“Grown up in all the right places.” Xander agrees with a brief leer in the direction of the closed bedroom door.

Spike gives his boy a cuff across the ear. “All right pet, none of that. You've only eyes for Daddy, yeah?”

“Riiiight Spike. 'Cause when we started playing I immediately became blind and could no longer see or appreciate other men. Even the ones with such perfect physiques that if they lived in ancient Greece, myths would have been written and songs would have been sung about their god-like perfection.”

Spike snorts. “That's right boy. That's exactly what happened and don't you forget whose hand will beating yer arse later to make up for your mouth now.”

Xander pretends to hang his head in shame, but really he grins. “Yes Daddy William. I'll remember.”

Spike pulls his boy's head back and leans over to give him a Tang flavored kiss. “You'll remember all right when the tears are streaking down your face and your bum is as red as a ripe plum.

“Now Quiet pet. Let Daddy listen to the other room while we wait.”

Spike places a finger in Xander's mouth and he sucks contentedly while they wait and Spike listens in to the events in the other room. The boy has such a compelling oral fixation, and Spike is not ashamed to use it for less than honorable purposes.

===

“Oh, I'm so glad you asked.” Peter admits as he claps his hands together gleefully. If he had a white cat to pet he'd be the perfect _Bond Villain_.  “I have a proposition for you Adrian.”

I grimace. “I was worried you might.”

“Now, now, no sour grapes Adrian. You brought this on yourself after all. If you hadn't betrayed me in the first place, there would be no paying the piper now.”

“Get on with it Peter.” I sigh, tired of his games, and wishing I could be on my way. Hoping, that being on my way will be a possibility at least. Being called _the prey_ makes me doubtful that I'll be leaving at all, except maybe in a body bag. I wince at that thought, then steel myself and face him again. I motion with my hand that he should continue.

“As you've no doubt noticed Adrian, we have you dead to rights. If we were so inclined we could have you locked up as a sexual predator for decades if not your entire lifetime. We are willing to keep our evidence under wraps if you will accede to our demands.”

“Blackmail.” I say wearily. “Okay, what are your—demands?”

“They're quite tame actually. I think you'll be amenable to them. If you consider the things we could have asked for, you'll be surprised at our restraint.”

I take a breath and tamp down my impatience. Peter will not be rushed. I think he's enjoying himself, allowing me to dangle on the hook before he makes his final wishes known.

Peter huffs. He must intuit my determination to exercise patience. “Very well Adrian. I shall continue.

“What we want is simple. You will leave Beacon Hill, never to return. You will sell your house, quit your job, move to another town, another state would be better. You will no longer work with students of any age, but you can work in administration if you like.” Peter turns to Stiles. “Anything else dear?”

Stiles cocks his head briefly to think things through. “He has to stay with his new daddy. It's permanent. If the new daddy tells us he's left, we go to the authorities with our evidence immediately.”

Peter nods and turns back to me. “That's right, you don't know about your new daddy yet. It's high time you met him.”

Peter is holding my arm again and dragging me towards the bedroom door.

“He's quite strict, which I know you'll enjoy Adrian.”

I try to protest.

Peter smoothly interrupts me. “Now, now boy. I promised I would make sure you had a new daddy when I was done with you and I try to be a man of my word. He already has one boy, and I knew he was looking for a second son. Last time I realized you would be perfect for him. He quite likes to spank bad little boys until they're good again. His current son is quite good, although it takes a determined effort to keep him that way. I saw how you watched Derek and Stiles. I know you'll enjoy being part of a similar group with a daddy and brother all your own.”

My mind is reeling. What if this new daddy is an abusive asshole who beats me and hurts me and tortures me? I'll have no recourse. Tears are falling from my eyes as I imagine the terrible things he will do to me and that I won't be able to escape, or else I'll wind up in prison. The horror of my situation dawns upon me in sharp focus. I have been trapped by an expert and the more I struggle to get away the tighter the trap will grasp me, until I strangle myself with my own effort to escape.

Peter has a cloth handkerchief in his hand. He uses it to dab away my tears. Sometimes he can be so compassionate. I almost wish I could stay with him. Then I remember how he orchestrated the entire event so he could take revenge upon me for contributing to the death of his wife and daughter. I am overcome with an enormous sense of loss. He is not mine. He never was, and never will be. My Papa, who cares so little for me, that he simply hands me off to another daddy, and insists I leave the city and never return.

“There, there. It's not so bad as all that.” Peter says as he pockets the handkerchief which is still wet with my tears. “He's a nice man. You'll be fine.”

Then Peter stops and reconsiders. “Well, he's not nice. And come to think of it, he's not exactly a man either. But trust me Adrian. You'll be just fine. Nothing to worry about. He'll take care of all of your needs, and all you'll ever need to worry about again, is keeping your daddy happy.” Peter looks up at me innocently. “That's what you've wanted all along, isn't it?”

Slowly Peter opens the door and I get my first glimpse of my new daddy and brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The relationship Xander and Spike have in this story is based upon the fanfic [Shadow Garden](http://archiveofourown.org/works/119429) by [Ladycat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat) and [sharkie335](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie335/pseuds/sharkie335). It's an amazing story if you're into Daddy Kink stuff. Plus they only have a couple of comments. If you are the type of person who leaves comments on fanfics, then please, please, please comment on their story, because it so dearly deserves it. And if you're not the type of person who leaves comments, then it's high time you changed your ways. Leave Ladycat and Sharkie335 a comment or Peter may be forced to find you a vampire daddy too. =^.^=
> 
> Next update by next weekend.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Argh. Had to rewrite several times to get it right. Still feeling like it's not perfect, but oh well. Publishing anyway.
> 
> My muse is a demanding witch who wields her leather whip without mercy. This is the story she wanted told and I did my best to remain faithful to her vision. My apologies to everyone who expected or wanted a different ending.
> 
> Still needs some editing. Will probably do it tomorrow. Meanwhile . . .
> 
> here ends our tale.

Xander watches the door, hoping for a glimpse of his new brother, head full of mixed feelings on the matter. While it would be great to have someone else to play with, someone to take up the slack when Spike is in a _mood_ , there is no guarantee that the new guy will be a good fit for what he and Spike have created together. Also, he's feeling a little jealous, like what if the new guy is hotter, or more interesting or more skilled in the bedroom? What if Spike likes him better and decides to drop Xander like a hot potato and ride off into the sunset with his new boy? When Xander expressed these feelings to Spike, Spike forced him to his knees and face-fucked him for 20 minutes, which is a long time to keep your jaw loose and your breathing normal. Then Spike shoved him over the kitchen table, grabbed a handful of his hair like a horse's bridle and fucked him into oblivion telling him over and over that what they had was permanent and there was no way Xander could _ever_ escape so he should get that idea out of his silly little head right now by gum, or face the consequences. Talking about their feelings always brought out the arrogant patriarch in Spike, so Xander was careful to discuss them at length at every given opportunity. Sometimes he made his own opportunities, just to get a good, solid ass-pounding.

The new guy walks out of the bedroom, tall, pale skinned, dark haired and looking very familiar. “Adrian?” Xander asks. “Is that you?”

The tall, slender man in the shorts and striped t-shirt looks into the room, then down at Xander, who as still on the floor between Spike's legs. His face is pale, drawn, eyebrows knit together with apprehension.  Confusion covers his face for a moment, then recognition. “Alexander?”

Xander nods. “Yeah, only I go by Xander now. Have for over a decade in fact.” He adds dryly.

Adrian's eyes open wide with surprise. “I don’t think we've seen each other in nearly a decade. How is your father?”

Xander frowns. “Still an asshole. How about you? I haven't seen you since the reunion in ought-four, by cracky.” **{See author's end note.}** “Are you still teaching?”

Adrian's face waltzes through a complicated combination of regret, grief, satisfaction and confusion before going blank. “I have been, but I believe I'll be looking for other work in the near future.” He says primly as he shoots a glance at Peter.

“Hey, wait.” Xander stops and looks at the other men in the room. He turns back to Adrian. “Are _you_ the bad boy who Spike is adding to his harem?”

Spike interrupts. “I assume you blokes know each other?”

Xander and Adrian exchange a look. They both turn to Spike and reply in unison. “Yes.”

Xander continues. “We're cousins. Well, second cousins actually. Our grandfathers were brothers, so we share the same great-grandpa.”

Peter clucks his tongue. “Adrian Harris and Xander Harris. I should have seen the family resemblance.” Peter pats Adrian on the back. “At least you won't be a stranger in a strange land. You'll already know your brother and he can tell you all about Daddy Spike.”

Spike takes a sip from his Tang and vodka and flashes Adrian a toothy grin. Adrian's face whitens perceptibly as the blood leaves it, presumably to assemble itself in a more southerly direction.

Xander pinches Spike's thigh. “Now, now Spike. No picking on the new boy. You'll scare him off before he's been properly indoctrinated.”

Spike pats Xander fondly as pushes the boy forward a bit stands. “Right you are. Shall we be off then? You boys head down to the car. Adrian, mind Xander. He knows the lay of the land. I'll be along in a moment.”

Xander offers a sarcastic curtsey. “Yes Daddy Spike.” He says with a smirk, then pulls a silent Adrian with him out the door. “So how long have you been into this stuff cuz?” Xander asks a bewildered Adrian as they leave.

“Don't get shirty with me unless you want to pay for it with your hide!” Spike hollers after them, then turns to Peter with a lascivious grin. “Got a nice harem of your own, I see.” He says as he leers at both Stiles and Derek. Stiles preens, while Derek blushes and frowns.

“It would seem I do, yes.” Peter replies mildly. Derek rolls his eyes and stomps off to the kitchen.

“Yeah. Hey. Sorry about your family, mate. Couldn't help but overhear while we were waitin'. That's a real hard thing isn't it? Losin' 'em like that and all.” Spike offers his condolences.

Peter closes his eyes. When he opens them they're twinkling. “Don't get me wrong Spike. I did lose family in the fire. People I loved. I didn't loose a wife or children though. I simply needed an appropriate story to get The Prey into the proper head space. I've never actually been married, and to my knowledge, never fathered any children.” Peter places a possessive arm around Stiles' bare waist. He snuzzles into Stiles' neck and licks it with a long, wet stroke. “At least not yet. That may change in a few years though. Got to get the little missus through college first.” He adds with a familiar pat to Stiles' pert ass.

Stiles blushes and hides his face in Peter's neck.

Spike barks out a shark-toothed laugh. “Yeah mate. Reckon you do.” On his way to the door he adds under his breath he adds, “Men havin' babies. Bloody fuckin' werewolves.”

“I heard that Spike. My hearing is as good as your own.” Peter scolds. “Now, please, keep your new charge out of Beacon Hills. If we see him, we will make good on our threats, and that will be so tedious and time consuming that I'll be forced to make certain he suffers for his transgressions. He did  help to murder my sister-in-law and seven other members of my family. By rights he deserves to die.”

“Well then, I'll just have to spend the next couple of decades making sure he pays off his debt. Won't I? He's got a nice long neck doesn't he? Be kinda nice to see how many marks I can put on it.” Spike's face transforms with the thought, brow thickening, teeth elongating, eyes flashing with hunger. “With my teeth. Yeah?” He adds in a low growl.

Stiles shivers in his skimpy underwear and presses closer to Peter.

===

Peter closes the door behind the blonde vampire and heaves a sigh of relief. “Well that went better than I expected.” He grins.

Grabbing Stiles hand and pulling him along, Peter walks into the kitchen to find Derek. “Am I right nephew? Overall I mean, I think we can definitively call it a success. Now I'll be able to start on the plan for the next prey I intend to stalk.”

Derek is frowning at Peter, eyes beginning to flash red amongst the hazel green.

“I must say, I thought that simply killing them in the bloodiest and most painful way possible was satisfying. But giving The Prey over to that Vampire; knowing that he'll spend the rest of his life as chattel for a sociopath; well it's particularly rewarding, don't you think?”

Derek's eyes are bleeding to full on red. His voice has dropped to deep growl. “I think, Uncle of mine, that you will spend the next week paying for the liberties you took while you enacted your sting.”

Peter chances a look up at his Alpha's face. Instinctively he drops his eyes and then forces himself to raise them again, meeting his Alpha's look fully. “Is that right Derek? From my perspective I was only doing what needed to be done to convince The Prey that he had no choice but to follow our instructions.”

Derek growls as his canine teeth descend. “Peter, we discussed it ahead of time. I _do not_ give you oral sex except on _my_ terms, as _I_ decide.”

Peter waves his hand as if to brush away his nephew's concerns.

Stiles sits at the kitchen table watching the back and forth between uncle and nephew like it's an especially riveting game of tennis.

“Derek.” Peter beseeches. “I know you prefer to offer your favors at your own discretion, but you saw how it affected The Prey. He _needed_ to see the two of you as my boys. He needed to see _me_ as the father figure and both of you as subordinate, even submissive, to me.”

Derek stalks slowly up to Peter, pressing him against the refrigerator. He closes in on the older man, breathing hot against his face and neck.

Peter settles himself comfortably against the fridge and widens his stance to make room for Derek against him. “Besides.” Peter wheedles, “You're always giving Stiles blow jobs. Why should giving them to me be any different?”

Derek huffs, presses his teeth closer and closer to Peter's neck, forcing the older man to shift his head to the side in obeisance. “Unlike you, dear Uncle, Stiles likes blow jobs simply to get off, for the orgasm. He doesn't treat them as a power play, like I'm submitting to him. He treats them as he rightly should, as a lover, an equal, offering him the pleasure of an orally induced orgasm. Something you seem unable to comprehend! You assume whoever is going down on you is subservient to you. It's not a simple blow job. It's something much more insidious with you. Do I need to remind you Peter? I am the Alpha! I do _not_ submit to lower wolves. _You_ submit to _me_.” 

Peter tilts his head, baring his neck completely. “You're right of course, Derek. I sincerely believed it was necessary to sell our story to The Prey. However I can see how you might have interpreted it otherwise.”

“Interpreted it otherwise?!” Derek rumbles, voice deep and throaty as he licks his way over Peter's pulse points.

The sound of Derek's growl makes Stiles' hair stand on end and his dick stand up and take notice. He can't help it. His fear switch is wired up with his arousal switch and it does weird things that he can't control. He's learned to be philosophical about it. Both Peter and Derek glare at Stiles as his pheromones stink up the kitchen. “What?” he asks. “Derek is hot when goes all Scary-Alpha-Wolf. If I could smell the two of you, you'd probably smell turned on too.” He adds under his breath, “Stupid werewolf senses, getting all up in my business.” Then he says out loud, “Can't a guy get a boner without drawing the attention of all the werwolves in the room? Huh? I'm asking for a little pheromonal privacy here guys. Think you can handle that?”

Derek snorts.

Peter smirks.

Using one hand Derek forcibly jerks Peter's head to the side and buries his nose in his uncle's neck, pressing his face tightly against a pulse point. Opening his mouth wide, Derek clamps his teeth down on Peter's neck and bites.

Hard.

Harder.

Drawing blood.

Strong, guttural, he mutters around his mouthful of flesh. “You submit to me, Uncle.”

Peter cries out then goes limp against the fridge. Eyes open but unfocused; mouth gaping, but silent for once. Derek shakes his head a few times, like a dog with an especially tasty bone, savaging his uncle's neck enough for there to be no doubt who is the Alpha and who is the beta. Peter lets out a long, breathy, hoarse, moan. Then he shudders. After a deep breath, he shudders again.

“Yes.” Peter sobs out, fully giving himself to Derek's authority.

Stiles shoves his hand into his undies and roughly palms his stiff, leaking dick. Werewolves can be really sexy sometimes. Maybe all the time.

Derek growls and the vibration reverberates through Peter's neck, down through his chest and belly, directly to his dick. “Oh. Yes.” Peter manages with a breathy, deferential drawl.

After another fierce shake of his teeth Derek releases Peter's neck from his toothy grasp. “Stiles, don't even think about it. Hands on the table.” He orders.

Stiles obeys quickly without even questioning how Derek knew what he was up to. He removes his hands from his ardent erection and places them obediently on the table where Derek can see them, if he were to tear himself from Peter and pay Stiles any mind at all.

Derek is panting, face still hidden in Peter's neck, trying to regain control of his wolf as it tries, unsuccessfully, to work it's way free so it can ravage his uncle. Ravage any wolf who thinks it might take the upper hand. A low, gular rumble rises from his throat at the very thought. Peter whines, his wolf submitting unquestionably to it's Alpha.

“On your knees Uncle.” Derek commands.

Peter, who is lost in the bliss of his submission, complies immediately.

===

Stiles keeps his hands on the table, as Derek instructed. He keeps his hands on the table and he watches Peter, who has been a naughty, naughty wolf, properly submit to his Alpha. Earlier in the night, when Peter had ordered Derek to go down on him, in front of The Prey, Stiles had known there would be hell to pay. Derek did not go down on Peter except, maybe, during a blue moon in July, when it was snowing, and bullfrogs were falling from the sky. It wasn't that Derek was stingy with the blow jobs, it was that Peter was from a different generation, with a somewhat skewed view of sucking dick.

Peter tended to treat oral sex as if it were a form of submission. Stiles knew it wasn't. Derek knew it wasn't. Peter, on the other hand, still had a few antiquated notions, and in Peter's mind, going down on someone, even someone you loved and cherished and would physically die for, was something only someone of “lesser” status would do. Stiles didn't share his opinion. In Stiles' mind going down on someone, giving them head, sucking their cock, was just something you did for the people you loved because it was fun and made you feel useful and happy that you could make them orgasm like a dam had broken and you were flooding the villages downstream with the torrent of your cum. Plus, generally speaking, you want your boyfriends/partners/soulmates to get off. Because getting off is just about the most fantabulous, smurferific thing you can do with or to someone you love. And Stiles is prepared to do it as often as necessary with either Derek or Peter. Or when things are going especially well, with both of them at the same time.

Peter, however, doesn't always see it that way. Which is why Derek is now jamming his erect penis into Peter's mouth, fiercely and with, perhaps, a bit more force that is strictly necessary.

Stiles is tempted to palm his weeping dick again, but exhibits a wee bit of self control because Derek is in a _mood_.

Peter's face is blissful. His mouth is open, stretched, full. His eyes closed. His countenance at peace. Stiles wonders if maybe Peter doesn't do these things to Derek just so Derek will be forced to exert his control over an uppity beta wolf. Shove his Alpha cock down Peter's throat and _make_ Peter take it. Stiles hums. He really wants to jack off.

Derek's head is thrown back, slack with pleasure.

Stiles sneaks a hand down into his underwear, grabbing his dick roughly.

Derek growls. Loudly.

Stiles stops and shoots a guilty look in Derek's direction.

Peter hums and sucks contentedly.

===

Derek has ordered Peter to change the sheets on the bed. He's also ordered Peter to pack the DNA samples away into the back of the bedroom closet because Derek finds them disgusting and offensive. Peter just thinks they're a turn on. Stiles is simply relieved that his most wearying teacher will be a thing of his past, not his present or his future. 

Peter is laying prostrate on the bed. For the time being he is passive, tame. Derek has lifted Peter's legs up, over his shoulders and is patiently, nimbly fucking the daylights out of him. Stiles is snugged tightly up against Derek's back side, shoving his hard, ruddy cock in and out of his Alpha's tight, dark, hole. He gasps and grunts as he moves rhythmically in Derek's ass.

Peter squeaks

Derek snarls.

Stiles sighs and moves faster, chasing his orgasm, knowing it's right around the corner. Idly he wonders if he can fuck Peter again after he recovers, because his refractory period is almost non existent. He can come and the get hard and come again mere moments later. There are advantages to being a teenaged boy. He smiles to himself  as he contemplates how many times he can come tonight before he finally passes out in exhaustion.

Derek pumps in and out of his uncle's ass. Determining to himself how long he should wait before he allows his uncle to come. A day without an orgasm probably isn't long enough to teach him a proper lesson. Perhaps a week? A month? How long without a release is long enough to teach Peter a much needed lesson?

Derek pumps in and out of Peter's accommodating ass. “How many days before I should allow you to come, Uncle?” He asks, reveling in the sensation of penetrating Peter while being penetrated by Stiles. “How long should I make you suffer for my pleasure, for my satisfaction?”

Peter, his eyes closed, his body tense with stimulation, whines in response. He has lost his ability to speechify with any coherence.

Derek angles his dick in a specific pattern, reaching Peter's prostate with every thrust. Peter whines in response.

“Answer me Uncle.” Derek insists.

Peter breathes, cries out. “Let me come nephew. Alpha. My alpha. Please. Let me come.”

Derek growls, leans down and opens his mouth to bite Peter on the other side of his neck. He clamps down firmly, allowing his wolf to hum, almost purr, in satisfaction, while Peter arches upwards, begging with his whimpers of submission.

Stiles thrusts in and out of Derek's hole, chasing his orgasm the way an Edwardian science nerd might chase a butterfly. He lunges forward and back, over and over again, panting, breathless. Derek can take it, no matter how hard he wants to give it. So Stiles gives it to his Alpha, hard, and rhythmic, over and over again. Sensing his own oncoming orgasm Stiles surges forward and lays his teeth into Derek's unmarked shoulder. He aims for the spot where the neck and shoulder meet and bites down, forcefully and with intent.

Derek howls, come spending itself into Peter's complacent and willing ass.

Stiles grunts, reminding himself once again that his life has become the stuff of his wildest fantasies. It's good to be Stiles with werewolves for lovers.

Peter begs prettily and with much desperation.

Stiles leans forward and whispers into Derek's ear. “He did allow The Prey to live. He could have killed him. He had the opportunity. More than once. Let him come. He deserves a reward for following directions, even when it was such a challenge to do so.”

Peter whines, lending his voice to Stiles'.

Derek relents. “Come now Peter, or don't come at all for the next week.” He orders with his most compelling Alpha voice.

Peter obeys and comes, his nephews cock hard and inescapable inside his body. “Thank you. Thank you.” He whimpers as sperm shoots out of his dick in opalescent ribbons onto the clean sheets.

Derek grunts, coming hard and methodically within his uncles' ass.

Peter sighs because, once again, all is right in his world.

Stiles grins because werwolves are the best lovers and he has two of them as his very own.

Derek frowns because grumpy wolf is grumpy. Even when his uncle and his mate are snuggled down in clean sheets to sleep away the night, until morning blooms again, bright and full of hope and blow jobs.

Not too far away, in Sunnydale, Adrian cries out as Spike pierces his neck with sharpened fangs and Xander sucks h is dick until he spills in shameful pleasure. His new Daddy may be just exactly what he needs.

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Ought-Four would be 2004. The last two numbers—04, are being described as ought-four because ought is an old-fashioned word for zero. Thus Ought-four is the same as Oh-Four. 
> 
> ===
> 
> Thus ends our epic tale of revenge. Hope you enjoyed it. =^. .^=
> 
> Next story I publish may be a sequel to my John and Chris story, or maybe something new with Peter. I do find him compelling, far beyond what a decent woman should experience.


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